It’s funny that I was chosen to sing this morning at the St. Patrick’s Day mass at my church, because I am not Irish. It appears that there isn’t anything Celtic about me, at least according to the results of the National Geographic DNA test that I took, which I am pretty sure I can interpret correctly if I peer at it with a magnifying glass from four different angles.
At any rate, I am not Irish, and neither is my cat, Harmony. The closest that we come to Irishness is being Catholic.
Yes, Harmony is a Catholic cat. She has been blessed by a priest on the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi. That makes it official, as far as we are concerned. No cat will ever be more Catholic than that.
She has never gone to mass, because she prefers to spend Sunday mornings staring out the back door window at squirrels and birds and people. She thinks people are funny. Attending mass, however, is strictly optional for Catholic cats, so I don’t say anything to her about it.
My church singing job requires me to be at mass every Sunday at 8:30 AM. I think it would be only fair if Harmony had to forego the back window parade and come with me at that forsaken hour, but if I were to let her out of the apartment she would head anywhere except to church with me.
So I tread a lonely two-block path every Sunday morning.