Inspiration

[tourbi]

A Miracle Called Faith

Heather L. Sanborn


The morning was no different from any other—except for the persistent cry from a determined little cat. The school principal and I both froze when we saw her—a small, bedraggled, black-striped, gray kitten with a very mangled front leg. Howling plaintively, she didn’t scamper away; she just leaned forward, her front leg deformed, muddied and matted with dried blood.


We found a small box, and the principal took the broken kitten to his office. As a second-year teacher, I couldn’t leave my class to take her to the vet, so I did what pretty much all kids do when they’re in trouble: I called my dad. Even with a very hectic schedule, he made time for things that really mattered, including a stray kitten with injuries. He said he’d pick her up within an hour. During that time, the kitten continued howling: first for milk (which she heartily lapped up), then for attention and, finally, as if she wanted to tell her story. Her yellow eyes were wide, and she wanted to see everything. We decided that she must have been hit by a car to receive such an awful injury, but she didn’t seem to be in pain.

Later in the morning, I called my dad again to get an update on the kitten. “She’s okay for now, but the prognosis isn’t good,” he explained. “The vet said that the injury is at least a day or two old, infected, and the nerves in that leg are dead. He said that she should either be put to sleep or have her front leg amputated.”

It was shaping up to be one bad day. My students had been particularly horrible to me and to each other. The school is in a low socioeconomic area, and it has produced rough students who seem only to know how to be tough so they don’t get hurt. One student in particular, Darren, was a quiet but very angry boy. He refused to complete any of the activities, work with the other students or answer me. Instead, he’d sit at his desk and stare straight ahead. The rest of the class knew better than to provoke Darren. Although he didn’t go out and pick fights, he had no qualms about giving a hard wallop to any kid who crossed him. Earlier in the year, he slammed a boy taller than himself into a wall for going through his book bag. Darren was feared by all.

At the end of the school day, I rushed over to the vet’s office. He repeated to me the same options that he had outlined to my dad. Questions flooded my mind: How could I even afford such a procedure? A three-legged cat? What kind of life is that for an animal? I’d have to put it on my credit card—along with many other, older charges that amounted to quite a large figure.

“Could I at least say goodbye to her?” I asked.

They brought me to the back, where she was sleeping in her litter pan on the floor of a cold, metal cage.

“Hello,” I called to her, carefully opening the wire-mesh door. “Hello, little lady.”

She sleepily lifted her head, her yellow eyes mere slits. Her ears drooped lazily, but she let out a little squeak, then yawned. I reached in and gently picked her up, avoiding the hurt leg that was now bandaged all the way to her shoulder. I could feel her little purr-box working away, and I held her close. “Meow, meow, meow,” she responded, as if she were informing me of her trip to the vet and how her stay had been up to that point. I started to cry. In my arms rested a little life that was about to end, and all she could do was purr and talk.

“You know, if you think you might want to save this cat, Sergeant has only three legs, too,” the vet said, pointing to a white fur ball who was very busily stalking something. “And he’s still a very happy cat.”

“Really?” I asked, looking closely at the three-legged feline.

“Sure!” he replied, retrieving a very plump and very three-legged Sergeant. “He hurt his leg a few years ago, and his owners brought him here. I amputated the leg, and he’s been the office cat ever since. Why, he isn’t slowed down a bit by that missing leg.” Sergeant sprang off the examining table onto the floor, swatted at a loose rolling ball of fur, then scurried down the hallway.

No sooner had I decided to have her leg taken off than ideas began to fill my mind—ideas of how to include this little kitten in my classes. The more advanced students could organize bake sales to help pay for the medical expenses. I would assign all my students a research project to learn more about any animal they chose. And the vet agreed to come and talk with them once the kitten had recovered enough to visit the school.

Three days later, I called the vet to check on the kitten’s surgery. “The vet’s still in with her,” his receptionist said. “But don’t worry. He’s done this before. It just takes a while.”

My students were also disappointed that I couldn’t update them on her status. Finally, we learned that the kitten had pulled through just fine. It was safe for the students to finally choose a name for her. Every child either suggested a name or voted, except for Darren. He thought the entire event was absolutely stupid and beneath his efforts. The students finally settled on the name Faith.

One month, 120 research projects (ranging from a picture of a duck to elaborately designed displays) and five bake sales later, the day arrived for Faith and the vet to visit the class. The students were wired and restless, but they knew the rules: stay in your seats and speak only when it’s your turn, or the visitors go home.

Darren was particularly ugly that morning, slamming his books, mumbling about stupid cats and boring visitors. Such an angry kid! Faith introduced herself with a squeaky howl from inside her carrier. I couldn’t believe how well the students behaved. Faith sat bravely in the vet’s arms as they gathered around and gently ran their fingers over her soft fur. Darren watched from his seat.

“Does she still hurt?”

“Has she fallen?”

“Can she wash her face?”

“Can she really walk?”

The vet placed her on the ground, and the students jumped back as though she might explode. Even Darren craned his neck so he could see through the students standing in front of him.

“Wow!”

“She hops!”

“She can walk!”

Faith scampered about the classroom, meowing, squeaking and exploring. She loved when someone scratched her back at the base of her tail. Standing a little wobbly on her three legs, she arched her back and stood on her hind toes.

Later, my principal told me that a reporter from the local paper wanted to visit the students who had adopted Faith, the three-legged cat. We were going to be in the paper!

Everyone wanted something to do or to show for the reporter’s visit. One group arranged Faith’s progress pictures on a poster board; another presented bake-sale signs; I prepared two students as greeters and hosts. Only Darren, the good-ole-grouch, was left out. All he could do was give me a whaddaya-gonna-do-about-it? glare.

I was going to be the one to watch over Faith. Then I had an idea. I announced, “Darren, you will watch over Faith