I don’t believe in miracles that drop spontaneously from the sky. But I do believe in miracles.
Christine and I were driving from her home in California to mine in British Columbia. We stopped overnight in Goldendale near the southern border of Washington state.
During the night, my cat Dickie got out. It must have been when Christine moved her cat (who had been yowling for more than an hour) out to our car. Although she was very careful with the room door, Dickie is skilled at darting between people’s legs.
He wasn’t in the room the next morning. And he didn’t come when I called. Dickie is the only cat I’ve ever known who comes on the run whenever I call.
We couldn’t stay. I had a cardiac appointment the next morning, an appointment made months before.
We stalled our departure as long as possible. We checked everything. We stood the Inn’s beds on end, to ensure Dickie wasn’t tangled inside the box spring. A young man – a total stranger – squirmed into a crawl space underneath the building, to see if Dickie was in there. We walked around the building, across the road, into a trailer park, calling Dickie.
No response.
After more than two hours of fruitless searching, I had to leave him behind.
I hadn’t realized how much I loved that little cat, until I had to go on without him.
But I kept hoping. Hoping someone would find him, and take him to a vet, and the vet would read the microchip under Dickie’s skin, and would call me.
Once home again, every time I walked past the doors of my house, I involuntarily checked to see if Dickie’s little face was peering through the glass, expecting to be invited in. If I went down the stairs, I expected to hear his paws pattering along behind me.
My rational mind knew he wouldn’t be there, couldn’t be there. My heart wanted him there.
I wanted a miracle. That Dickie could somehow trek 800 km north back to his home. Or could hitch a ride under a truck heading north. Or that Star Trek’s Scotty could beam him up to my yard.
That would have been a miracle, by anyone’s definition.
After most of a week of emotional agony, I felt I had to do something. I decided I had to go back to Goldendale, for one last search. Christine thought the trip would be a waste of time. My daughter Sharon called it a hopeless cause.
Saturday morning, Christine and I hit the road around 6:00 a.m. and drove 640 km south.
In Goldendale, Christine showed pictures of Dickie to local businesses and to the RV/trailer park next door. I circled the motel, calling Dickie’s name, whistling his special two notes.
No response.
I was crying.
Until I looked back. A small black-and-white cat was following me.
It felt like a miracle. It was a miracle.
I sat on the stubbled grass and talked to him. He overcame his hesitancy and came to me. I scooped him up in my arms.
I’ve learned something about miracles.
Miracles don’t just happen. They require human intervention. Recovering Dickie was a miracle, but if Christine and I were not willing to invest 16 hours of driving on a wild-goose chase, Dickie would still be hiding in a field in Goldendale.
Miracles do happen. We humans need to help them happen.
