COLUMN: Looking for angels that come our way

One of my favorite “angels unawares” was Dr. Crags — a weathered old, nearly wild tom cat that appeared on my porch one cold day a couple of years ago. He was skinny and very motley-looking, gray, with a sort of a crooked face. Scarred and very tentative about the prospect of getting food off my porch, he looked like he’d had a rough life.

Initially, Crags wouldn’t eat while anyone was around. But I left food out for him and he became a regular visitor. A little later, he would stay on the edge of the porch while I put some canned food out for him, eyeing me carefully out of his one good, dark golden eye. Still later, he would actually come to meet me, ravenously gobbling the wet food as fast as I could dump it from the can.

About a year ago, Crags got hit by a car or attacked by something and half of his face was nearly pulled off. His foot was injured, too, and he looked like he was in a lot of pain. There was no way I could grab him to take him to the vet – so far he hadn’t even let me touch him. So I asked the vet for some strong antibiotics, which I slipped into Crags’ food each day. Because I wanted him to be sure and eat the pills, I switched him over to the whipped cream and baked chicken diet my house cats get when they have to take a pill.

You’d thought poor ole’ Crags had died and gone to heaven, watching him wolf down that chicken and whipped cream so enthusiastically twice a day in spite of his maimed face.

It took three rounds of the antibiotic, but Dr. Crags eventually healed. And in a few months, his face was almost normal again – maybe a little bit more crooked than before, but fluffy and gray and well-healed. Crags continued to make his way across the street twice a day for months and I grew fonder and fonder of the sight of him, sitting quizzically there on the edge of the porch, looking wisely at me through his one good eye.

As time went on, Crags let me pet him while he ate. And because he ate it with such relish, I continued to feed him mostly whipped cream and chicken. He got such pleasure out of it and what if he was an “angel unawares?” I wanted him to give a good report about our hospitality.

Eventually, he even developed a bit of a purr – not really a purr – more of a low grumbling sound, but coming from Dr. Crags, while I petted him, it felt like quite an honor.

The last time I saw Dr. Crags was five days after Christmas. He came for his usual meals and sat for awhile in the sun on the porch and then he disappeared – never to return. I don’t know what happened to him, but I hope it was a quick and painless, or easy, peaceful death.

There have been other “angels unawares” over the years. There was Beezer, the blind, 14-year-old poodle I rescued from the pound. She had a broken foot and very bad breath, but there was something bigger than her ancient tiny self staring out of her cataract-clouded eyes.

Pru, a badly buckshot Rottweiller — also rescued from the pound — healed and loved and protected us for years, a deep wisdom and patient love shining from her big brown eyes.

Bud, a motley old Silkie rooster with a funny-looking feather mullet certainly had more going on than just watching over the hens I used to have.
Countless other creatures — and people — over the years have made me wonder, “Is there more going on here than just the misfortune you seem to have fallen into?”

There is a sad, dusty, almost ethereal demeanor to those who may be angels unawares…a depth to the way they look at you…an almost unearthly wisdom in their eyes.

It’s hard times out there. There may be laid-off people and foreclosed-on people; people who can’t afford their medicines and recently-made homeless pets joining the ranks of those angels unaware who cross our paths in need of help or care.

”Let brotherly love continue,” is how the Apostle Paul started his letter to the Hebrews. May we remember that, and give help and take help from whatever angels come our way.

Lorin Sinn-Clark is a writer for the Barrow Journal. She can be reached at lorin@barrowjournal.com.