Purr anyway.

I’m going to have to print that on a T-shirt in honor of my sensei, the master who has been teaching me a thing or two about life for the past 10 years: Purr anyway.

Perhaps your yoga instructor would call it “equanimity,” your pastor “grace,” your congressman “tolerance”. To me it’s wonder and acceptance and forgiveness and peace and plain old garden-variety love all rolled into a slightly musty ball of fur.

His name is Dudley.

We have a long and delicious history with this raggedy cat that showed up on my porch one day and announced that we were The Chosen. He begged entrance, quite loudly for such an early hour.

I glanced at Cat Hater in shock. What? Don’t cats know when they’ve arrived in hostile territory?

In our jammies we went to investigate. We stared. The cat stared back with calm eyes and rubbed against the window, squawking “hello” a few more times. I’m pretty sure he was purring, because this one is Always Purring.

Next day he showed up again, different door. Repeat performance.

And the third day, same.

“You’d better feed him,” Cat Hater finally said. And that’s as good as signing adoption papers.

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But how would we ever get Hunting Dog to live at peace with a cat? The young, excitable canine paced and whined just watching Dudley through the window. “Let me at him! Let me at him! I can take him!” she begged as she lept around in a fit of excitement.

But Dudley, having conquered Cat Hater, wasn’t afraid of any old dog.

He sauntered, relaxed and amiable, right up to his adversary, flopped to the ground, and rolled over as if to say, “Have at it, my friend.” That cat began to rumble like an old Model T, and despite the threat looming over him, he purred anyway. And Hunting Dog became a loyal fan.

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They say cats have 9 lives. We lost count at around 19.

This one’s a scrapper, and as much as he loves us and the warmth of our home, he never really adjusted to the finer life we offered him, and certainly didn’t want to be Kept. We live out in the forest, and the outdoors was his playground and home, so eventually we gave up trying to make him respectable and just loved the ragamuffin. He would show up a couple of times a day, occasionally offering a mouse in thanks, and hang around to teach us some loving lessons. Eventually he’d slip off into the meadow or the forest to hunt or flirt with the dames, or maybe slip into the neighbor’s hen house.

When Jazz (Hunting Dog’s offspring) was a young whippersnapper, she was fascinated with Brother Cat. They would play, they would sometimes curl up together. But sometimes her fine breeding would clear its throat and remind Jazz that she, too, was a Hunting Dog. She would glance at me apologetically, and slowly lean back toward the cat, jaw open, wanting desperately, for some reason she couldn’t understand, to chew that cat. Occasionally she would actually get the cat’s head right inside her mouth, and nibble ever so gently, and then look at me and say, “I am ashamed.”

But the cat? He just purred anyway.

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“Oh-oh,” Gramps said to the empty house; “she’s finally done it.”

Grandpa came to live with us. His annoying little Pekingese, all six pounds of him, fancied himself a vicious pit bull. Sammy would go ca-razy when Dudley sauntered up to sit beside us in the sun. He yapped and foamed and feinted like he was going to take that cat out in one bite. When at last he lunged at the cat, without so much as a preemptory twitch Dud’s claws flashed out and taught that dog a speedy lesson in one quick slap.

Sammy sat down to think about it and decided to catnap in the sun with the rest of us, and that was that. Friends ever after, Dud and his bud.

One morning Gramps stood on the porch, drinking his coffee and staring out the window toward the woods.

Out of the forest came Jazz with the cat, limp, between her teeth.

“Oh-oh,” Gramps said to the empty house; “she’s finally done it.”

Jazz plopped Dudley’s body down in the sunny driveway, and turned back toward the forest.

As Gramps watched, horrified, that cat popped back onto his feet, shook himself, and trotted after Jazz into the forest, purring anyway.

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Each summer, when the winter fur of our outdoor ruffian sheds, Dudley looks so moth-eaten and boney we are certain he is dying. But every winter he fluffs back up like a towel fresh out of the dryer, looking young and dapper.

Still, Dudley’s ears become a little more ragged with each passing year, evidence of repeated scrappy cat-fights, I suppose. Once he came home so beaten up he did nothing but sleep for three days, nursing a bad eye infection until the life returned once more to his cat-frame and his purr motor started back up.

He’s a survivor, that cat, putting up equally with the dress-up games of my young daughter and the not-so-friendly advances of beasts in the wild.

One day my reformed Cat Hater husband noticed Dudley dashing briskly up our long driveway, pausing nervously in a crouch now and then to look around, and finally slipping quickly and quietly under our porch. Hater is savvy, smart and curious, so he kept his eyes glued to the driveway. Sure enough, a coyote trotted up, looking to the left and right for his prey. He raised his head and sniffed the air, but eventually slunk off, defeated, outsmarted once more by Dudley, who watched from beneath the porch. Most likely purring.

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Hunting Dog’s offspring eventually had her own offspring, and Dudley raised that puppy, too. Oakley was respectfully fascinated by Dud, and still stops to sniff the soft fur that smells a little of barns and rodent, her tail wagging in deep honor. She’s received a spanking, too, and respects the claw.

Dud talks back to her, leans in, and purrs happily, but now his purr squeals a little on the inhale, like my old Honda did before it died.

There are no fences at the Gallaghers’, so we work to train our dogs not to run off into the forest. That’s a tall order when turkeys or squirrels or quail dash by, inadvertently flipping the canine CHASE HIM switch.

The other day young Oakley bolted from the porch, and as I hollered, “OAKLEY! DON’T!” she rocketed right past the cat, who was sauntering coolly up the hill. In the split second before she disappeared into the forest, I spotted the bobcat that had been quietly stalking Dudley turn and dash quickly into the woods, with Oakley in hot pursuit.

Good dog, Oakley.

And old Dudley? He just kept sauntering along, cool as… well, cool as a cat. Purring anyway.

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How does this small beast let it all roll off his fluffy back like it all doesn’t matter?

I can’t quite wrap my head around how he does it. I lose my cool when I don’t know how something will end, when I’m offended by someone not considering me, or if things unravel unexpectedly. How does this small beast let it all roll off his fluffy back like it all doesn’t matter? Like this moment is the only one? Like it’s all going to turn out in the end? When I move him off my keyboard or tell him he can’t come inside, he’s like, “No worries,” and he just keeps right on purring. Like the only thing that matters is eating,

escaping death, and loving everyone.

Maybe it really doesn’t matter. Maybe this moment IS the only one. Maybe it’s all going to turn out in the end. And maybe loving everyone really is all that matters.

I’ve got to learn to purr anyway.

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Dudley looks a bit like a zombie cat these days, motley and with an occasional limp or an eye that’s stuck shut. Sometimes Dudley needs help jumping the 36 inches up to his cat food dish, and as I lift him, I try to avoid the broken rib that permanently sticks out at an odd angle. Before I set him down at the dish, I sneak in a little snuggle with this flea-bitten lover who Never Ever Stops Purring.

Last night my daughter came in cradling Dudley, who snuggled contentedly in her arms, his motor running, his sides heaving in and out like an accordion in time to his purr.

“Look, Mom,” she said with her sad face.

And as she bared Dudley’s neck, I saw that his jaw and neck were badly swollen, a large chunk of fur was absent, and a nasty scab had formed right on top of his jugular. Clearly some foe had grabbed him, hard, by the throat. How does a rickety and ancient cat keep on escaping these things?

Dudley met our maternal Ohs and kisses with a calm, slightly sleepy gaze, as if to say, “Oh, it ain’t nuthin’ but a thing.” He closed his eyes, snuggled in deeper, nudging us contentedly with his nose.

“Rumble, screech, rumble, screech…” went his motor.

And he went right on purring anyway.

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My flea-bitten sensei, teach me your ways!

And Lord, soften my bristley spirit. Help me to remember what really matters, and that love covers all offenses.

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Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.

Colossians 3:13 NIV