Chapter Eight—Chinky Gets Saved
Mom wrote the Binkley aunts: “Rebekah and Tim sure like their cats. This morn, Rebekah wanted me to find out what was the name of the first cat in the world. She insisted I look it up in either the dictionary or the Bible. Rebekah tries to teach the dog to talk. She dresses up the kitties in doll clothes. She sure is a busy girl.”
. . .
Tim and I were sitting on the back step of the parsonage where we fed the cats. Chinky, our favorite orange tomcat, appeared among the waving tails of other cats jostling for breakfast. He was AWOL for several days and we had been worried about him.
Our worry was well placed as he was now missing most of his left ear and the hide of his left flank. His pink exposed muscles pulsated with every heartbeat.
Chinky, along with other cats, came with the parsonage. They were charged with keeping the rats and mice populations in check, but the cats were losing the battle while the rodents were winning. Chinky, however, had the habit of wandering off. In the short time we had lived there, the un-neutered tom had come home from neighborhood brawls times before. But this was by far the worst drubbing he had taken.
“Do you think he’ll die?” Tim asked.
I shrugged. By unspoken mutual agreement, Tim and I knew we wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell either Mom or Dad about Chinky’s hurts. Both of them were of the “put the poor thing out of its misery” school of thought concerning animal husbandry and we were not ready for that to happen to poor Chinky.
I wasn’t certain, but I imagined that in the secret society of cats, the usual two-party system—the bullies vs the bullied—thrived. Chinky was a tough cat in his own right, so I figured it probably took a whole gang of delinquent cats to inflict this much damage.
“Who did this to you?” I asked him.
Animals sometimes talk in picture books, and although I had never had a cat speak to me in English, I always held out hope someday one of them might answer.
Chinky said nothing. His only reply was to rev up his two-note purring motor. Arching his back, he rubbed his good side against my knees before flopping down on the sidewalk, his terrible wound clearly visible.
“Can you go get the salve?” I asked Tim. “I’ll keep him here.”
Tim hopped up. “Be right back,” he said and ran for the salve.
He returned with the tin of Watkins’ Petro-Carbo Salve, Mom’s cure-all for everything from poison ivy to athlete’s foot. This gooey brown ointment was packaged in a two-part can and required tenacity to get it open.
“Hold Chinky, Tim. Maybe pet his head.”
After some minutes of tug-a-war with the can, the lid came off with a belch of carbolic acid.
Tim sat cross-legged on the sidewalk stroking Chinky as I put a gob of salve on what was left of his ear. The little stub flickered spasmodically, and we thought it looked funny. However, when I started to spread salve on his bigger wound, he briefly considered running away, but Tim held him down until I finished.
“Maybe we should put some band-aids on him,” Tim suggested.
We loved band-aids. Since television ads converted us to the miraculous healing power of band-aids, we wanted them whether we had a significant owie or not. Among children, they were a status symbol. “What’s the band-aid for?” some kid would ask, and suddenly, that child was the center of the universe. Kids would pile up five deep to just to catch a glimpse of a particularly gruesome scab. It made it worth having your hair torn out by the roots to peel off one side of the band-aid to show it off.
Mom, however, was as frugal with band-aids as she was with everything else. Her standard line: “The sun and fresh air will do a better job of healing than a band-aid will.”
But we no longer believed that. TV commercials made us true believers in band-aids.
I considered Tim’s suggestion. Maybe Chinky would feel better if he had some band-aids rather than leaving his owie to the healing power of sun and fresh air. But sneaking band-aids out of the house past Mom was going to take some finesse.
“I’ll try to get some,” I told Tim. “See if you can keep him here.”
Feigning nonchalance, I strolled into the kitchen. Mom was at the table, her Bible open, pen in hand, and with her laser focus fully engaged—a survival skill developed early in her early days of motherhood.
She didn’t seem to notice me as I headed for the bathroom.
The bathroom door and I were old enemies. It had a cracked, warped personality all its own, possibly from the pounding fists of those desperate to answer nature’s call while someone else seated behind the door claimed squatter’s rights. It required a house-rattling slam or a Charles Atlas strong-arm technique to get it closed enough to latch. Furthermore, the latch was the hook-and-eye variety, and when the door was slammed shut, it rang like a cowbell.
I didn’t want to arouse Mom’s suspicions. Breathing a prayer for strength, I quietly pulled the door shut until I felt it settle into its jams. I silently latched it and started rummaging through the cabinet for band-aids among the typical 1950s potions and remedies.
No band-aids on the lower shelves.
I leaped up to look on the next higher shelf and caught a peek of the band-aid box. I jumped again and knocked it to the floor. Tucking the box in the waistband of my panties, I unlatched the door, and prepared to tiptoe out.
Now that I am a mother and grandmother, I know that by trying to be quiet, I triggered Mom’s warning alert of sneaky kid behavior. So not surprisingly, when I opened the bathroom door, she was staring straight at me.
“What are you up to? And what’s this?” She reached into my panties’ waistband and removed the metal band-aid box. “Who are the band-aids for?”
In a brief moment of desperation, I was tempted to make up a lie, but I couldn’t think of anything plausible to say, possibly because Mom’s Bible was on open the table demanding truth.
“They’re for Chinky. He’s back and he’s hurt.”
“The sun and fresh air will do a better job of healing than a band-aid will,” she told me. “Besides, have you ever heard the saying, ‘Cats have nine lives’? God gave cats a remarkable ability to heal up. He’ll probably be okay. I’ll look after him later. Now go play.”
She kept the band-aids. (Rats!)
On the way out the back door, a clean piece of cotton sheet hanging out of the ragbag caught my eye, so I snagged it. Tearing it into strips, we tied them fore and aft around Chinky until he looked like a four-legged ball of rags. We tried to wrap up his ear, but without tape or band-aids, nothing we tried would stay on his little ear stump. When we finished, Chinky lay between us, semi-incapacitate by bandages, purring and smiling as only a cat can.
I worried about Chinky. What if Dad or Mom decided it was time to “put the poor thing out of his misery?” What if he just died? This was of grave concern to me for a variety of reasons, but one specific worry kept me awake nights: What was the state of Chinky’s soul? Had he accepted Jesus? If he died today would he be waiting for me at the backdoor of my heavenly mansion?
Every mission conference and revival service of that era had the same scriptural theme verse: “Go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.” (Mark 16:15-KJV) To me, “creatures” meant cats. Our milk cow that was as grouchy as Orville, could go to hell for all I cared, but our beloved cats—especially Chinky—were a different matter. Since the parsonage was located on a busy country road, we never knew when one of them would suddenly be called to meet its Maker. The specter of any of my cats going to hell truly haunted me, but Chinky’s sad state carried with it a sense of urgency.
I formed my theology on the subject from several Biblical sources I knew from family devotionals, long hours listening to Dad or Mom preach, and missionary slide presentations.
I reasoned that if God cursed the serpent in the Garden of Eden when he let Satan use his body, reptiles must know right from wrong. Perhaps other creatures did, too. In the demonic of the Gadarene story, the herd of pigs that ran over a cliff and drowned because they would rather be dead than full of demons, seemed to confirm this point of view.
“God’s eye is on the sparrow,” Jesus said. He was watching them as well as me. When a sparrow fell out of the nest or the sky, he noticed. The recording angel must be keeping track of sparrow mortality rates, too.
But Billy Graham’s life story clinched my theological stand. I heard that before he became a big-time evangelist, he used to preach out in the woods. I didn’t suppose he was preaching to the trees—that would be ridiculous—but to the woodland creatures, those being the “every creature” to whom I thought Jesus was referring.
So since serpents were cursed for being filled with the devil, since pigs would rather die than be full of the devil, since God was keeping track of fallen sparrows, and since Billy Graham answered the call of Jesus to preach to the woodland creatures, then my cats were definitely in danger of hellfire. I needed to step up and tend to their souls. But how?
Shortly thereafter, a visiting evangelist graphically preached on the Day of Judgment. He described the Resurrection when the graves would be opened, and the dead would rise. He went on to describe Judgement Day with God on the Great White throne and how everyone would stand before the Maker to answer the eternal question: “Did you ask Jesus to be your savior?” The recording angel would verify the date.
As he preached, I envisioned myself in heaven, standing before the Great White Throne of God to be judged. All our cats, present and past, were there, too.
“Chinky!” God’s thunderous voice would ring from the throne.
Chinky would step forward to give an account of his life. A heavenly television set would flicker on and we would watch a fast-forwarded review of Chinky’s life from kittenhood, to his fights with other tomcats, to the day that a speeding pick-up truck squashed him into the gravel.
Meanwhile, the recording angel was thumbing through The Lamb’s Book of Life looking for Chinky’s name. Finally, with great sorrow, the angel shook his head. “No,” he said. “Chinky’s name is not written in the book.”
From the throne, a hand would point at me and God’s voice would boom, “Chinky was your cat. Did you tell him about Jesus? Did you preach the Gospel to this creature?”
Oh! The guilt! The shame!
Then, using his feather quill as a pointer, the recording angel pointed to a dark corridor where the shadows of hell’s flames flickered on the walls amid silhouettes of gleeful demons dancing and making impolite gestures with long, snaky fingers. Heavy with regret, Chinky would slowly enter the corridor. As he rounded the bend, he would stop to take one last look. “You never told me,” his yellow eyes would accuse me. “I might have believed. Now I’m going to hell because you were too busy playing with your dolls and riding bikes. You didn’t care enough to tell me about Jesus!”
Then, tail dragging, Chinky would trudge ahead. The demon cackling reached a crescendo as he disappeared into the abyss. Howls and bone crunching arose out of the flames.
This vision of Chinky in hell tormented me more and more.
One Sunday soon after, after Dad buttoned my dress and tied my sash and Mom hurriedly jerked a comb through my hair, I put on my coat and went outside to look for Chinky.
“Here kitty kitty kitty!”
Chinky showed up, sans his bandages, and looking surprisingly chipper considering the damage he had sustained.
I stroked his good side, and he rubbed up against my legs and coat. When I heard the cars start—it took two cars to get us all ten of us to church—it occurred to me that if I could get Chinky to Sunday school and church where he would hear the gospel, he might be saved—hopefully.
I picked him up and put him inside my coat. It was a too-big hand-me-down coat so there was plenty of room for him. Enjoying my warmth, he began to purr.
“Ruth, Becky, and Tim, you three ride with Daddy and me,” Mom instructed.
As we climbed in the backseat of the black Nash, I held my breath, praying no one would notice the moving bulge under my coat.
Mom wrote about it to Grandma and the Binkley aunts: “Rebekah took Chinky the red cat along to church with her yesterday hid under her coat and didn’t let his presence be known until we had gotten real well started. I know she hadn’t counted on her Dad stopping and letting him out right there. He didn’t show up all day yesterday and Carl was about due to go hunt him and then he arrived for breakfast this morn.”
I was so relieved when Chinky came home. I felt like God was giving me a second chance.
Ruth and I had often played church with our dolls. But on the following Sunday afternoon, with Chinky’s soul still heavy on my mind, I suggested our outreach efforts should include the cats.
Once our cats were properly attired in doll clothes, we sat them on little red wooden chairs for our service. A few tried to make a break for it, but finding themselves hopelessly hobbled, they philosophically settled in for the duration. We sat Chinky on the front row where he would be sure to hear.
“Let us pray,” Ruth said, opening our service. She prayed then announced the congregational hymn, “Jesus Loves Me.” Since there was a lack of cooperation from our congregation, Ruth and I were forced to sing it as a duet.
After that came the sermon, which I was to present.
I had prepared a sermon based on my cherished birthday present of a genuine flannel graph set. Mom had asked me if I wanted a flannel graph set of my very own for my birthday since I loved playing with hers. The flannel-backed figures were beautiful and had all sorts of elaborate backgrounds that could be assembled.
For this mixed congregation of cats and dolls, I chose the story of Moses and the Bulrushes. I reasoned that it had everything: a baby, a princess, a clever basket weaving craft project, an evil pharaoh, a little girl heroine, and a happy ending. What’s for a doll—or a cat—not to like?
With earnestness, I told the story of the baby boy ordered thrown into the Nile. But by the grace of God plus the cleverness of a mother and daughter, he was saved.
“Did you know that on some farms kittens are put in a bag and thrown into the river?” I informed them. “God has spared you, but this might be your last chance to accept Jesus.”
Now came the “invitation,” the most important part of our service. Ruth and I sang many verses of “Just As I Am” from the spiral-bound Celebration! chorus book. We pleaded with the cats and dolls to ask Jesus into their hearts. The longer we urged them, and the more verses we sang, the sadder the animals looked. The dolls seemed unmoved, but who knew what was in their hearts?
When we finally, reluctantly, had the closing prayer, some of the cats bowed their heads, so we had hope that a few of them repented. At least they had all heard the Gospel. I wasn’t sure about Chinky but I could sleep knowing I had been faithful to the Great Commission.
Later in the week, aware of the importance of baptism, I broke the skiff of ice on our wading pool in preparation for the redeemed to follow Christ in baptism. Ruth and Tim were occupied elsewhere so I had to do the baptisms solo.
It was not a success. In addition to the tendency of the baptismal candidates to wander off, several unsanctified cats protested the sacrament, and like St. Peter, attempted to walk on the water. The result was scratches all over my arms.
“That’s what you get for being so mean to the poor kitties,” Mom scolded as she applied Watkins Petro-Carbo Salve to my wounds.
“What possessed you to dunk the cats under water?”
I explained I was only trying to fulfill the Great Commission, but she was unsympathetic about my sufferings for sake of the Gospel.
“Cats don’t have souls, so they can’t repent. And they certainly don’t like to be baptized. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
Well, yes.
I thought I understood. I thought I had scripture to back up my position, but apparently, I had misinterpreted it, or at least misapplied it. Not only that, after one of our protracted church services, the cats probably wondered if they weren’t already in hell.