AN OLDIE-BUT STILL A GOODY--"SNOT" FOR CHRISTMAS

I wrote this several years ago--but it still brings tears to my eyes today--and it has become one of my favorite Christmas miracle stories. It appears here in it's original, unedited format.
Though I'm sure many of you read it before--I hope you still enjoy it--and most of all--see the wonderous works of God's miracles in it's words.

 Twas Christmas Eve at Cats Are Us, and I was attempting to give all my feline and canine friends who live there some holiday cheer. The back building is where I spend a lot of my volunteer time. Most folks who enter the front building rarely see the rest. That building is the “prep” area. In other words, most of our little guests in this part of the shelter are working their way towards being an adoptable pet. What I mean by adoptable is that they have had their shots, been fixed, and had all the tests performed to assure no feline diseases are lurking about. But then there are others that will always make their home here. There are some that are a little on the ornery side, some that are physically challenged, and then others that suffer health issues.


On this particular Christmas Eve, Gherta had asked me to sterilize a carrier and set it up for a new occupant away from the rest of the cats. A few minutes after this was done, Suzanne brought in a little guy who was suffering from upper respiratory illness. When I looked at him, it tore my heart out. The poor little guy was breathing like he had smoked four packs a day for twenty years. He had sneezed so much that his nose had begun to bleed. His eyes were so infected that they pulled back into slits. The fur on his head, front legs, and neck was greasy and damp, leaving his back end dry and looking relatively normal. In short, he was a mess.

“Oh God,” I said. “Is he going to live?”

“Sure he will!” she said with a non committal look. “He’ll be fine.”

God Bless her. She was trying to be positive but not set me up for the fall. The little guy was ill, and by listening to the state of his breathing, his fate could turn either way.

The little cat had been medicated and his eyes creamed, and now I made my attempt to place him in the carrier. It was a dog carrier, so I had plenty of room to slip him inside. But the only thing that sick little guy wanted to do was lie in my arms and rub his head into my shoulder. He may have been deathly ill, but this little guy knew that it was Christmas Eve, and he wasn’t about to act sick. I held him close to me and stroked his messy, nappy fur. He sneezed into my shirt.

“I’ll call you Snot.” I said, loving on him as he purred thru his runny nose.

“Why not Sniffles?” Gherta suggested. “That’s a cute name.”

“Snot.” I said, examining the smear on my shirt sleeve. “It fits him.”

I finally got the little rascal into his new home and covered it with a towel so that his sneezes wouldn’t spread the germs around. I tried to go back to my duties, but I kept finding myself under the towel, talking to Snot, telling him that God loved him and that everything would be alright. He purred softly and rubbed his little head against my hand. I was hooked.

Christmas Day arrived, and when I got to Cats Are Us, I made my way straight to the back room to Snot’s cage. There he was, perky and rolling around on his little cat bed. He still looked the same, but even sick, he was just as happy as every other “child” was that Christmas morning. I worked the room and made my usual 50 trips to look under the towel and say “Peek a Boo” to the little guy. He was happily purring away between sneezes, nudging my fingers that curled thru the metal door to rub his fur.

The next day, I had to stay home. My washing machine drain has been clogged up three times in the past two months, and the wash was piling up. So I figured that it was time to be “Joe the Plummer” and get that fixed up. I ended up making a bigger mess—but more on that one later.

On Saturday morning, I got to the shelter and made my way to the back building where Snot’s cage was. I was already talking to him when I lifted the towel from the front of the kennel. But I stopped suddenly.

The kennel was empty.

I tried to be good, but the tears welled up in my eyes as I looked all around the room for my little Snot. Anyone who volunteers at an animal shelter knows that there are good times and bad. It’s as much a part of an animal’s life as is it a humans. When you work a shelter, you just suck it up and try to let the good out weigh the bad, and try to make more good things happen so that the bad is over shadowed by it. But sometimes, no matter how hard you try—you get a kick in the gut.

I firmly believe animals arrive at shelters and rescues because God has a mission for them. That animal is on this Earth to touch lives and provided unconditional love and comfort to a human heart that desperately needs it. God talks to these hearts and leads them to the shelters and rescues, and to that animal created just for them.

When I play and love on these creatures for months on end, and suddenly they die, it’s as if everyone involved has been cheated by fate. The only reasoning I can use to comfort myself at times like this is that the heart that God was speaking to just refused to listen to what he was trying to tell them. So, God decided that the animal was better off with him anyway as there is no better forever home than with God.

Sometimes this scenario provides comfort. Sometimes it’s just pitiful.

I didn’t find Snot anywhere else in the building. I tried to tell myself over and over that he was better off now and that at least he had spent his last hours safe and warm as opposed to the damp cold where he had been rescued from. I was about to go off in a corner and have myself a melt down when another regular volunteer came into the room.

“Your little friend took a turn of the worse yesterday.” she said as she began to move the trash cans around to clean. “His eye infection was worse.”

I nodded and tried to look the other way so she wouldn’t see my grief. I finally got enough of my voice to speak.

“When did he die?” I asked.

She spun around as if I had hit her in the back with a broom. “He didn’t die!” she exclaimed. “He spent the night at the vet’s office!”

Now it was time to cry.

“OH!” I said, feeling as if the weight of the world had lifted off my shoulders. “OH!!!! OK!!!”

“I’m going to pick him up in just a bit. “She smiled, cluing in on what I had been thinking.

Within the hour, Snot was once again lying in my arms, purring away. His adventure to the vet’s office hadn’t harmed him one bit. His little eyes had been medicated with a different antibiotic and were looking much better, and the congestion was less now. All Snot wanted to do was love on me and be loved on. As I held him in my arms and listened to his purring voice, I quietly thanked the Lord for saving him and letting the vet know what to do for him. Snot ate a good meal of soft food, did his business, and played with his jingle ball while I cleaned the other areas around his. When I left for the day, I said a little prayer “with” him and knew that he would be fine.

I call the shelter everyday to check on Snot. I am happy to report that he’s doing well, eating like a horse and getting better everyday with the help of medication and loving care from Gherta and Suzanne. Pretty soon he will be well enough to be with the other felines and not spread the germs of his cold.

He has officially been named “Mistletoe”—(YUCK)—but that doesn’t matter to me. They can name him Plumb Pudding for all I care—as long as he is healthy and happy and we can find him a loving home.

He’ll always be my little Snot.