Panther And The Chicken Bone
I often think of a neardeath experience. It was agonizing, heart-wrenching and painful. It happened on a summer Sunday afternoon in 1960 when I was 14 years old. We had attended a church meeting in La Mesa, Calif., and Mom prepared a scrumptious meal of fried chicken.
I had a bad habit of feeding food that I didn’t care for to our pets who were sometimes under the kitchen table. Mom didn’t want them there, and Dad usually ordered them out of the house, or at least out of the kitchen, while we were eating. The meal was great on this day, so I didn’t need to get rid of anything, but I did want to bless my critter — Panther, my black cat — with a tasty morsel.
Dad sat at the east end of the table, his back to the wall, with Mom on the opposite end of the table. Ten kids sat between them: Six on a bench and four in chairs. I had the privilege of sitting at Dad’s right hand, or was I positioned there to assure that I stayed out of trouble? Only Gena and Janice, my older sisters, might know. “Eugene, sit still.”
Dad caught me again! All I wanted to do was to sneak outside to give something to Panther. After all, he needed to have a good Sunday meal with the rest of the family. After a few more minutes, Dad got wrapped up in a discussion with the family and I didn’t think he would notice if I left the table.
So, I gently put down my utensils, moved to the edge of the bench and leaned down as though I would tie my shoes. I stood up, and walked behind Dad’s chair, and slithered out the screen door with a juicy morsel of Mother’s Fried Chicken Leg destined for Panther’s platter.
Panther purred so loudly that I thought Dad would discover my absence. But I managed to enter the kitchen and scoot back to my assigned seat on the bench.
SUCCESS! No one missed me.
But then nature erupted outside. Panther was screaming in a guttural sort of way. Dad asked, “What in the tarnation’s going on? Oh, it’s the cat. Euge, did you feed him anything?”
I was caught!
“Yes, I gave him part of a chicken leg.”
“How many times have I told you not to feed the cat chicken bones! He’s a gonner now.”
“No, Dad. I’ll go help him.” And I started for the door.
“When an animal is hurting like that, it turns wild. If you get close to it, it’ll tear you up! Leave him alone!”
I had to ignore Dad on that one. “Dad, it’s my fault. I have to help him.” And I hurried out the door. Panther was in agony, thrashing around a bit and still screaming.
I knelt down near Panther. “Come here critter. I’ll help you.” And I meowed several times in a compassionate sound.
Panther stopped hollering, and I picked him up. I gently opened its mouth, reached way down and took hold of the bone, twisted it gently and pulled it out. Panther sat on my shoe, looked up to me and began purring — but softly. Its throat was bleeding slightly, but it would heal.
All conversation at the table had stopped, and everyone was looking toward the door as I entered. Smiling, I held up the bone to show everyone.
“How in the world did you get it out?”
“Dad, you taught me a long time ago that we can get a cat to open its mouth if we wrap our hand around its head and squeeze its jaw right here.” I pointed to both sides of my jaw. “Then I just reached in and pulled it out.”
“And Panther let you do it without biting you?”
“Dad, he’s my cat. He loves me and would never purposely bite me. He knew I would help him.”
“Verna, I forgot that I had taught Eugene that trick. And I’m surprised he remembered.”
“Stan, he’s your son. He listens to you more than you think he does.”
Dad ruffled my messed-up hair, I sat down, and we continued eating Mother’s Fried Chicken.
Friends, when you are suffering or are in trouble, go to God. He’s waiting for you. He won’t purposely hurt you; He loves you and does only what’s necessary to help.
Like Panther trusted me, you can trust God.