By Madeline Rosales
It was a Sunday morning and Mr. Delaney found himself late to church. Always had he religiously devoted himself to his schedule— a table so sacrosanct that when Time itself once tried to reschedule a meeting, it was only to be met with the indignant prose of a sternly worded complaint. Though the blame could have been conveniently placed upon the shoulders of an alarm clock for never blaring itself loud enough to shake the neighborhood into seismic chaos that morning, Mr. Delaney, in a moment of bashful reflection, acknowledged that his cat was every bit to blame for his tardiness.
Mr. Delaney had, as usual, awoken with five minutes to spare before the clock’s scheduled beeps were set to commence, and had been sitting atop his Scotland kilt blanket, awaiting that anticipated alarm. Yet, fate intervened three minutes shy, as his cat, often draped in an unhurried grace that betrayed a regal disdain for the affairs of humankind, chose to recline herself upon his lap. Mr Delaney then had quickly reached to silence his impending alarm and proceeded to spend an odd half hour scratching the feline behind her ears as she made a purring sound like an engine turning over.
With the passing of that half hour, the cat unlocked her jaw to let out a silent yawn, placed her two front paws delicately upon Mr. Delaney’s thigh, and executed a graceful stretch that Mr. Delaney assumed would have eased all of his aches had his spine possessed a comparable fluidity, and hopped from the bed. Whether the cat was aware of how much turmoil she had made of Mr. Delaney’s day was entirely unclear to him.
When Mr. Delaney had finally arrived at church, everyone was already seated in the pews and singing in wondrous chorus, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Alas, his arrival disrupted the psalm, and Brother Charlie stormed forth in a fit of righteous fury.
“You have disturbed the peace, Mr. Delaney!” Brother Charlie’s voice bounced off the church’s high walls and made the portraits in stained glass quiver.
Laura Tipin looked upon Mr. Delaney in disdain, and her husband followed suit.
With blushing cheeks, Mr. Delaney responded in a voice that had once been as clear as a bell, but was no longer. “I’m sorry, Brother Charlie. My alarm clock did not ring.” A statement which was not a lie.
“You need not apologize to me, Mr. Delaney,” Said Brother Charlie, whose theatrical syntax was often irritating, “But to the Lord. For it was He who you kept waiting.”
“I’m sorry, Lord.”
“And apologize to me again. For it was me whose time you wasted.”
“Should I apologize to the Lord twice as well? I think it’d be wrong to apologize to you more times than to Him. Seeing as He is the Almighty and what-have-you.”
“Are you insulting me?” Asked Brother Charlie, who had grown weary of the ceaseless questions that sprang forth from Mr. Delaney’s mouth day after day like an unyielding stream of arrows seeking entry into the fortress of his sanity.
“Did it seem that way?” Asked Mr. Delaney, who was always very inquisitive.
“Silence!” Bellowed Father Cadel. He had been sat in the office, deep in prayer, or so Brother Charlie had told the morning mass attendees. Yet Mr. Delaney couldn’t help but notice Father’s apparent case of bedhead, proof, perhaps, not to the depth of his spiritual contemplation, but rather to how closely he held his head against the pillow he had on his desk, “Why has the ceremony stopped?”
Laura Tipin, and her husband shortly thereafter, pointed to Mr. Delaney. “It’s him, Father! Mr. Delaney was tardy this morning and interrupted our hymn!” The others in the pews — The Bermans, the Hylers, the Smiths, and so forth — all hummed in frustrated agreement.
“Mr. Delaney,” Father Cadel narrowed his eyes as his gaze set upon him, “is this true?”
Mr. Delaney quickly concluded that it’d be very unbecoming of him to lie to a priest, and so he confessed, “A little.”
“Come with me, Mr. Delaney.”
Mr. Delaney’s cat, who did not have a name because no one other than Mr. Delaney ever called for it and he knew that she would never respond to a name, had felt a subtle twinge of guilt that morning as Mr. Delaney quitted the house. Cats don’t have much concept of time, especially not in the way humans perceive it; more so, they disregarded it as a mere fleeting abstraction, beyond their realm of understanding and care. Cats only know that one day, they are alive. From then on, they only know sleep, and their ultimate deaths hardly impede that endeavor. So, Mr. Delaney’s cat didn’t exactly understand where her error had occurred, however, she had definitely noticed that her owner had that morning an unusual urgency prompting an abrupt departure as soon as she had sat up from his lap, and realized that her presence must have impeded him somehow.
She knew how her owner operated. In the mornings, he’d supersede his alarm clock and yet only get out of bed by the time it rings; he’d then trudge to the bathroom and splash his face, that she privately deemed unpleasant to look at, with water and brush his teeth with a bright blue stick. Then, he’d pull on a reliable thick sweater and the same pair of jeans every day, before leaving. Where, however, she hadn’t a clue. That Sunday, however, Mr. Delaney had abandoned the splashing of his unsightly face and the ritualistic application of the colored stick. Time, or lack thereof had unfortunately robbed him of these, leaving only the familiar and faithful thick sweater and jeans in its hurried wake. With a heavy heart, she realized this was her that obstructed his routine.
However, she ultimately decided that it was merely hunger prickling at her insides and not guilt.
Gosh, Mr. Delaney’s cat thought in perfect human speech, He may not feed me if he’s holding a grudge. I ought to make up for this morning.
When Mr. Delaney returned, in a hush of resignation, his cat went as far as to greet him at the door. Every day, as the clock hands embraced twelve, he’d return home, she’d hear him click his tongue three times to call her. He’d repeat this action unwaveringly regardless of how unsuccessful it always was. However, much to her dismay that day, he walked right past her, ignoring the very endearing, wide-eyed expression on her furry face.
“Father Cadel, what a monster he is!” He grumbled as he stormed in from the doorway. His cat took care to shut the door behind him, “Taking advantage of good church-goers such as myself. Disregarding how perfectly on time I am every other Sunday. What a joke that man is. A man of God, he claims? God would not stand for this—”
His rantings were interrupted with a furious mewl. “Oh, my apologies.” Mr. Delaney’s tone of voice smoothened as he lowered himself to pet his cat’s little head, “Today really grinded my gears.”
Meow.
“Father Cadel is making me go on a pilgrimage, you see, to the top of the mountain where the very high priest resides.” Mr. Delaney scoffed, “A loud of bullocks, if you ask me.”
Meow.
“That’s what I said! But you know how Father Cadel is.”
Father Cadel had asked Mr. Delaney into his office. Mr. Delaney had always felt more comfortable around Father compared to the brothers, as they were closer in age and Mr. Delaney believed they could always talk on equal footing. However, Father Cadel had begun to boast his two month advantage and present himself as a high school senior might to a freshmen: wiser and worldlier.
“Young Delaney,” Father Cadel had said to him, knowing that Mr. Delaney despised that nickname, “I’m afraid you are not in tune with the love God has sent you.”
“I am not afraid of that.” Mr. Delaney refuted.
“Well, I believe you do not understand God’s place in your life. He is the sole being who will love you unconditionally, cares for you even in the most trivial of moments, and walks by your side when you need a hand to hold.”
Mr. Delaney wondered at that moment if he had remembered to leave food in his cat’s bowl. “Very true.” He said, absentmindedly.
“You require a reminder of this, surely. So I beg of thee, consider a visit to the very high priest. It may not be more than a day’s journey.”
The moment those words left his lips, Mr. Delaney found himself frustratingly hooked. “A day’s journey?” He scoffed, “A waste of a day!”
“Young Delaney!” Father Cadel pressed a hand to his chest in a show of exceptional shock, “You will not speak of this sacred journey in such a manner!”
Mr. Delaney felt his cheeks burn. “I apologize, Father Cadel. But you must understand, I have… commitments.”
“What commitments might trump your relationship with God?”
“I—” He scrambled for excuses, “I have a cat.” He almost felt ashamed at how he couldn’t even imagine a more meaningful preoccupation.
“A cat? I’m sure he’ll—”
“She.” Mr. Delaney quickly corrected.
“She’ll be fine without you. How much love can a cat give you? How much in comparison to God?”
Lots. Mr. Delaney had wanted to say, but didn’t because he wasn’t very sure if it were true.
In the sanctity of his home, he looked down at his cat, who was standing on her hind legs to reach for his hand, and thought, She’s probably just hungry.
Mr. Delaney set out on his pilgrimage the following morning, with nothing besides a bag to accompany him, much to his cat’s saddened surprise. She had optimistically anticipated that he’d be digging the cat carrier out of the attic at any moment, followed by an ironic round of cat-and-mouse, as she skillfully avoided the imprisonment. Alas, such expectations were in vain, for he departed alone without so much as a goodbye. The offended cat, staring at her owner’s vanishing silhouette, wondered if Mr. Delaney might come back loving God more than her.
Mr. Delaney’s cat let out a hiss, for it was the only verbal way she could’ve possibly expressed her Shakespearean lament on abandonment, and it resonated through the empty spaces left behind by her cruel and absent human.
Within human minutes, she was pacing back and forth.
Why is he not back yet? She wondered, He’s not a young man. What if something terrible has happened? What if he fell into a river? What if he’s currently falling into a river? What if he’s found a better cat and plans to give her all of the food? Food? Oh, I could eat now. Eating always calms me down.
Mr. Delaney’s cat felt like bursting into tears as she came upon her empty food bowl. The bastard forgot to feed me!
She let out a catty shriek and raced towards the couch that stood by an open window, and leaped out of the house, arms outstretched as if intending to glide like one of those fancy squirrels.
Mr. Delaney’s legs were not what they once had been. In his recent years, his knees had become a grave enemy, creaking and cracking at every bend. Climbing up the mountain, which did possess an impressive incline, thus did not appeal to him— a sentiment he made upon his first step. The mountain was a known spot for berry picking due to its dense berry bramble, and this only impeded Mr. Delaney further as he made more than a tremendous effort to kick the thorns that paved his path away.
“Begone, pesky things!” He groaned, stomping a stray twig into the ground. In a wave of gratitude, Mr. Delaney acknowledged the fortuitous thickness of his boots, a robust shield that dutifully shielded his soles, feet, and ankles from the relentless onslaught of thorns, as though they had been crafted by a cobbler with an intimate understanding of nature’s prickly vendettas.
However, his cat, who had been following unbeknownst to him, did not have thick boots and suffered the sharp aches of every thorn. Rather than crying out for assistance, she stayed in determined pursuit of her owner, steadfast in her mission to accompany him and guarantee his return home—primarily to the all-important feeding bowl. The cat felt her tongue, its texture she knew was like sandpaper, water at the thought of her reward.
Mr. Delaney found himself near the mountain’s summit but paused at a small river to refresh his face — his very ugly face — now burdened with cold sweat from the climb. Awaiting his completion, his cat maintained a vigil, ensuring her gaze never wavered, fearing that he might tumble into the river during one of her momentary blinks or sidelong glances.
This prophecy seemed to fulfill itself, as Mr. Delaney’s grasp on the gravel beneath him faltered as he leaned over the water, resulting in a headlong plunge into the waves. Amidst the watery chaos, Mr. Delaney’s calls for assistance echoed fruitlessly, met only by the disdainful gaze of his cat, who harbored an unrelenting aversion to all things aquatic. Water, whether in the act of drinking, the sound of it, its mere sight, or certainly being immersed in it, was a detested thing to her. Given the chance, she would have willingly erased it from existence without a moment’s hesitation.
In a cat’s existence, defining moments are scant, with even the events of birth and death passing by with minimal acknowledgment. Perhaps, the first midday nap could be deemed significant, but the feline mind hardly affords it much contemplation as they would be very unconscious during that time. Yet, Mr. Delaney’s cat, until her final days, proudly recounted the tale of her daring dive into a rapid river after her owner. In fact, she etched it into the unassuming narrative of her later eight lives.
The water’s sting clawed at her extensive array of fresh scrapes, swiftly wreaking havoc on her once-warm fur and penetrating to her skin. Every single degree below her body temperature felt like a legion of frozen needles exacting vengeance in a personal grudge. What had she possibly done to warrant such a ruthless thrashing from Mother Nature? Yet undeterred, she persevered until she sank her teeth into the sleeve of Mr. Delaney’s sweater, jerking them both out of the water. Then she swiftly discovered that suffering the cold air while wet was an ordeal far worse than the frigid water itself.
“It’s you!” Mr. Delaney cried for joy as he scooped his cat up into a tight hold, “How did you do that? You’re so tiny! And what are you even doing here?”
Mr. Delaney’s cat felt discomfort spread through her body and attempted to wriggle and squirm from his arms. Yet she ultimately surrendered to his embrace even quicker than usual.
Meow.
“Thank you, dear! I love you forever!”
Then came an unfamiliar voice. “You must be Mr. Delaney.”
Mr. Delany and his cat turned both their heads towards the man standing across the river, who appeared, from his bloodshot eyes and voice that rode through the air like a sailboat on a lake on a windless day, to be the very high priest.
“I am!” Mr. Delaney called out to him, his cat still nestled in his arms.
“Father Cadel said you’d be visiting.” The very high priest laughed, at no apparent joke, “Nice to meet you. You seem great. What’s the problem?”
“Father Cadel says I do not value the love that God has sent me.”
“What do you mean? You must be kidding. God sent you that, yeah?” He pointed a lazy finger at the cat, who had been licking her paws furiously.
“She’s a cat.”
“Right on. Well, God still sent her to you, and you seem to love her a lot.”
“But she’s— she’s a cat!” Mr. Delaney remarked, more thrown off of his balance than he had been moments before his fall, “Loving her surely can’t be enough!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, she’s a cat.”
“A cat that loves you very much.”
“She loves that I feed her.”
“Anyone could feed her,” The very high priest let out a chuckle with a lot of underbite, “but she would only jump into a river for you.”
The food part is important, though. The cat told her owner through her eyes.
“Oh.” Mr. Delaney tilted his head, “A cat is enough?”
“Yeah. A cat is enough. Now go home, she’s hungry.”
And Mr. Delaney cradled his precious pet all the way back to their home, and fussed over her new collection of scratches on her small toes that he always commented resembled pink and puffy beans. His cat rested her head upon his chest, and felt her own heart slow with comfort as she listened to the gentle rhythm of his. Any human could feed me, she decided, but this old and ugly one is mine.
And from then on, if Father Cadel or Laura Tipin and her insufferable family ever cast a disgruntled gaze unto Mr. Delaney, he would only shrug them off and await the moment he’d return to his cozy cottage and reunite with his cat. And if his cat pressed a wet nose to his hand as he bent down to pet him, Mr. Delaney would know that it had been a good day.
Madeline Rosales is a sophomore at Seattle Academy of Arts and Sciences in Seattle, WA. She is currently a Senior Editor for Polyphony Lit. Her biggest influences are Neil Gaiman, whom she adores with every ounce of her heart, and S. Morgenstern, The Princess Bride being her favorite in all the world though she has never read it. She writes mainly short stories and is currently developing a fantasy novel.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 