I've Been Thinking About This…

My pastor had a verbal slip of lips last Sunday – almost a spoonerism – when he merged the two words ‘clothing’ and ‘shelter’ – here’s his post. So in response today, I came up with a few possible definitions of his new word ‘Shelting’:

1. Pelting snow or sleet (don’t know where the ‘h’ came from – perhaps the opposite of the silent letter such as the ‘k’ in ‘KNOCK’?)
2. Herding, a task done by a Shetland Sheepdog (Sheltie)
3. Variants of the ancient Scottish activity of shelting:
   1. Originally, an ancient rite-of-passage that took place in the remote Scottish Highlands, where young bloods would leave the ancestral hovel in a blizzard and attempt to make it to the shepherd’s lean-to on the far side of the mountain. Because of their great dislike of anything English, it was considered even more manly to do this wearing a kilt – which is odd, when you think about it. Not to mention really cold.
      1. This custom is no longer much in vogue, except in families where the grandfather mentions he used to have to do it every day, in a time when the winter snow was much deeper, and it was 10 miles up hill all the way – and both ways, because the shelter had been blown away, so he had to come back home to get the axe to build a new one.
      2. Now being considered a sport for the Winter Olympics.
   2. Couples in their mature years enjoy staying at bed & breakfasts in the area and hiking to these old shelters during the long summer days. Although taking the same ancient paths to reach the lean-to, this cannot technically be considered ‘shelting’, inasmuch as (a) there are no frozen bodies beside the trail; (b) there is no longer any danger from wolves (although there is a large and growing feral rabbit population) and (c) they are more likely to find amorous couples in the shelter than half-starved kilted savages.
4. An evangelistic term, based on the metaphor – there’s a storm in the world that the lost are trapped in. As a church we want to draw them into the fold, thereby ‘shelting’ them.

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I never liked cats. They’re standoff-ish; independent; cold. They move fast in a preemptive strike and the next thing you know you’ve got a scratch across your cheek. So when my wife said she needed to go back to the pet shop because she forgot to get dog-food, the last thing I was anticipating was a plot by my wife and daughter and an ambush by a half-pound kitten. (Warning number one: she only went to the pet shop in the first place to get dog food; how come she forgot? I ignored that point, rather than question my wife’s mind. It may not have been a good call — I paid for it later.) Into the pet-shop we walked; surrounded by the smells of fish food and happy puppies, I was an innocent being brought to the slaughter. We picked up the dog food.

My daughter said, “Oh, just look at the kittens!”

I said, “They’re Tribbles, and they’re Trouble. Come on, we’ve got the dog food … Chloë’s hungry; let’s go.”

My wife said, “We have time to look at them. We’d like to see that orange one there, please.” (This last to the clerk.) Warning number two: she was too specific, but the bell going off in the back of my mind still wasn’t loud enough. Out came the kitten.

She said, “Just hold it. No, really, it’s purring. Feel how soft it is on your cheek.” She touched the loudly-rumbling kitten to my face — it didn’t lash out and scratch me. (I realize now that the cat was in on the plot as well.) She put the kitten in my hand. The whole of that tiny body lay there, purring enormously, exuding contentment as the tail hung gracefully down. I lifted it back to my face — he reached out and touched me on the nose, paw velveted. It was an amiable gesture; there was an enormous contentment in holding him so. My daughter put up her hand and gently stroked it. (Warning number three: my daughter should have wanted her own kitten to hold at the same time. Went right over my head.)

“How much is he?” my wife asked the clerk.

“Thirty five dollars.” came the reply.

“Honey?”

“No!”

“But Dad, he’s so cute, and small, and all alone!”

“Which part of ‘No’ didn’t you understand?” (But already I was weakening under the onslaught of this insidious purring.)

“Chloë will love him.”

“They’ll fight.”

“He’s a lover, not a fighter!”

“Don’t quote McCartney to me.”

“It was Michael Jackson, and it’s true.”

“Absolutely not. Your mother and I will talk about this, but the answer’s still going to be ‘No’.”

And we left. Yes, it’s true; we walked out of that pet store and drove home. And when my wife was talking, all I could hear was that purring reverberating in my ear. Promises were made about who would look after the cat, change the litter, get the food ready. But when we got to discussing who would name it, and how we’d each get a vote, I realized I had lost. A lifetime of cat-less-ness surrendered to a tiny marmalade Tribble.

We got back into the car and went back to the pet shop. As we walked through the door, somebody else was holding my cat! Thank heavens, she put him back in the cage, and walked out of the store. I went to the counter and put down my thirty-five dollars. As we walked out, the woman was coming in with her husband, saying,

“I forgot to get the dog-food; it won’t take a minute.”

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