Mishka

Born under a trailer and sired by an unknown father, the tiny, yowling kitten tries to climb my pant leg. His caretaker says, “Oh look, the neediest kitten found you. You live alone. Take him.”

“Today?” I gasp. He’s only four weeks old, has been abruptly weaned. He’s so tiny I cup him in one hand.

“Right now,” she replies.

So this wee mewling being comes home with me and for the next few weeks I feed him from a tiny bottle. We bond deeply. For the longest time, he has no name. When my kids still lived at home, we always gave plenty of time to name choosing, often brainstorming for days and giggling over ridiculous ideas until the right name smacked us in the face.

This time, though, the naming is all up to me. I experiment with several that don’t work and then hunker down to wait. Several weeks later, out of thin – or is it thick – air, a word I’ve never heard before, never spoken, comes barreling out of the ethers. Immediately I know it’s THE one. Mishka.

This fuzz ball grows thick, long hair and weighs a lot by the time he is an adult. Many refer to him as a bear of a cat.

I learn years later that Mishka means “little bear” in some of the languages of eastern and central Europe.

I leave you to cogitate on this ordinary miracle and invite you re-member times in your own life when the eairth brought you a gift of knowing. I’d love to hear.

More about communicating with Mishka and the eairth next time.