Psych

A cat was always around for as long as memory goes back. But of all the cats from those childhood days, one stands out above the rest — Psych. Short for Psycho. And he earned it.

Psych was wild. He attacked without warning, drew blood without remorse, and seemed to enjoy every second of it.

One afternoon we walked a few blocks to a nearby baseball field to play. Psych followed. An open field offers no refuge when a cat is hunting, and that’s exactly what he was doing. He chased us down, one by one, biting and scratching until he was satisfied. My sister Norma’s friend Jackie was with us that day, and she got the worst of it. That was Psych’s idea of playing — all fun and games until something darker took over.

Jackie ended up at the doctor’s office and never quite got over her fear of him. We, on the other hand, loved Psych anyway and kept taking the abuse.

One night he was crying outside the bedroom window, so we snuck him in — knowing full well it was forbidden. He repaid us immediately. Silently. All we could do was cover our faces and try not to make a sound. That night taught what it means to scream silently. Jo, Norma and I took turns peeking out from under the covers to track him, three kids held prisoner by a nine-pound beast. By morning, when Psych had finally worn himself out, the damage was done — arms scratched, dignity questionable, but somehow the love for that cat still intact.

Toby

Toby was my son Mikos’ cat. He moved with us from Santa Barbara to Whittier, to the Valley, and finally to Orange, where we call home today. Mikos loved that cat.

We were planning a short weekend getaway to San Diego. As I pulled into the driveway, Toby caught my eye. I figured he’d run out of the way — they always do. But for some reason he ran toward the car instead. I had no idea what happened until I noticed Toby in the bushes, shaking his head. When he turned, half of his face was gone.

I called Mike screaming — “I ran over Toby’s face!” Mike rushed home and we scrambled to find Toby before Mikos got home from school.

Mikos found him first. We rushed Toby to the vet and were told he needed reconstructive surgery and would be on pain medication for the rest of his life. The rest of his life ended that day.

Blanca

Blanca was our next cat, but she had a habit — urinating in shoes. Most unpleasant doesn’t quite cover it.

Once, Mike was getting ready for a trip and pulled out his suitcase. Blanca had gotten to it first. I remembered reading that baking soda would clean it up and kill the smell. What a mess that turned out to be. Mike’s black suitcase was now covered in white powder — and still smelled like cat urine.

Barney Bernard

Barney Bernard Ciriza was one of my favorite cats. Mike, however, had major issues with him — and for good reason. Barney Bernard sprayed everywhere and eventually lost his indoor privileges entirely.

One evening Mike and I were on our way to a party when I asked him to stop at the store so I could pick out a birthday card. When I got back to the car, Mike was shirtless. I didn’t know what to think, so I said nothing. Then he asked, “Do you know why I’m not wearing a shirt?” I answered, “No, not really.” He said, “Because the cat pissed on my shirt.” Needless to say, we were late for the party.

Then there was Halloween night. Some amateur Satanists failed at an attempted animal sacrifice. Barney Bernard came home with his chest torn open about four inches. The vet stitched him up and sent him home. Barney Bernard being Barney Bernard, he survived.

He didn’t survive what came next. Barney Bernard died on the same day Mikos graduated from college. Our friends from Colorado were in town and fed him tripas — Spanish for cow guts. He fell victim to a coyote not long after, and the thought still lingers that the smell of those tripas got my cat killed. I cried for days.

Mookie Mariano

Shortly after Barney Bernard’s death, Mike and I went to a pet store and came home with Mookie Mariano. Mookie loved us and showed it in his own way — birds, rats, and rabbits, delivered with great pride.

He was the smartest of all our cats and had one rule: entry through the upstairs bathroom window only. Late one night, half asleep, I heard him crying outside and let him in without thinking. He walked in carrying a rat the size of a huge raccoon. We cleared out of the room so Mike could set up traps. For three days that rodent ate carefully around every single one of them.

I finally posed the question to Mike — “What if the rat is pregnant?” That did it. Mike went upstairs to take matters into his own hands. For about fifteen minutes I heard slamming and banging. He finally came back downstairs, proud as a man could be, prize catch in hand.

After fourteen years, we had to put Mookie down. He had developed an abscess that made eating too painful. The vet prescribed medication, but Mookie refused to take it. The abscess won.

The day I took him in to be euthanized, I was in tears. I looked at him and said, “Mookie, you were a great cat.” He looked back at me, and I know — if that cat could talk — I would have heard, “Was?”

That day I made a decision. Every cat from that point on would be an indoor pet.

Maxine Mew

For years we shared our home with two cats, both belonging to our daughter Sonja. How they ended up permanently with us is no mystery to anyone who knows how these things go.

Maxine, the pesky one, was Sonja’s college cat. When Sonja moved back home for a season, Maxine simply stayed. She was nineteen years old and suffered from a peculiar contradiction — devouring her food only to lose it all moments later. She was not a spiritual creature, and when her time finally came, she would most likely spend the rest of eternity in purgatory.

Prudence

Prudence (Prudie for short) is the cool cat. Unlike Maxine, she requires no tender loving care and wants none offered.

The first meeting came while Sonja and Russ were on their honeymoon — someone had to feed their cats, and somehow that someone was me. Prudence introduced herself with a slap to the face. When picked up for a cuddle, she immediately lined up round two. This cat had been rescued from the alleys of Costa Mesa and came with the attitude to prove it. Having to fend for herself left marks — not just on her, but apparently on anyone who got too close too soon.

Since our yellow lab Shadrach’s passing, Prudence has had the run of the backyard. She loves to step outside for a few minutes, then comes running back in to use her litter box. Considerate, in her own way. Back at Sonja and Russ’s, Prudence had been making life miserable for their other cat, Cleo — daily, without apology. That is how Prudence came to live with us.

Mike is not a cat person. We have three litter boxes and share the cleaning between us, which says everything about the compromises love requires. Cats may appear well-groomed, but they leave fur and hairballs everywhere. They jump on the tables we eat from. They barf on clean bedding. And their most offensive act — leaving their business just inches from the litter box, as if the extra step was simply too much to ask.

Cats are not mentioned in the Bible, but they were created by God. And like most things God allows into our lives, they exist to teach us something. In this case, the lesson is clear: they are the boss.

Prudie’s Age

Prudie’s age is a mystery. She could be as old as twenty-three — in cat years, that is over 102. A few years ago, a prayer went up that Prudie would live another five years. For those who doubt the power of prayer, Prudie is making a strong case for the other side.

A Prayer for Prudie

Lord, thank You for Prudie. She is lovingly cared for. May all cat owners be loving and responsible caregivers to their pets. Amen.

Man’s Best Friend

Dogs

Dogs appear in the Bible more than 40 times — yet most of those mentions are far from flattering. Scripture often portrays them as scavengers, symbols of the lowly, or terms of contempt. But this story is different. This is about the dogs in my life.

Childhood Dogs

Blackie was the first. A short, black Heinz 57 of a dog — the kind that defies any single breed — he holds the earliest place in memory among childhood pets. His life ended under the wheels of a gas repairman’s vehicle, and his send-off was as solemn as children could manage: an old shoe box for a coffin, a backyard funeral, and a shallow grave.

Rest in peace, Blackie did not. Curiosity, that relentless companion of childhood, kept drawing us back. Sticks in hand, we morbidly checked on him — part grief, part fascination — proof that even in loss, kids can’t help but poke at the mystery of it.

Albino

Albino — Bino for short — was an all-white mutt and everything a neighborhood dog should be. With fences on two sides but none in front, Bino ran the streets freely and lived well doing it. Life was good, until it wasn’t.

Bino’s undoing was love. He had fallen for a designer dog down the street and was in the middle of consummating that union when the trouble started. This was no shotgun wedding — the shotgun came out with one purpose, and it wasn’t matrimony. A redneck woman, with a shot gun in hand, stepped outside and shot him right in front of the neighborhood kids, me included. The bullet passed clean through Bino’s hip.

My mother called the police. Nothing came of it. Suing wasn’t an option — we just dealt with it the way families like ours dealt with most things: quietly and without much choice. Bino went to the vet, had surgery, and that was the end of the medical care. No follow-up visits. For the rest of his life, Bino got around on three legs — hopping through the same neighborhood he once owned — a survivor in the most unglamorous sense of the word.

Dogs in the 1960s

All of the childhood dogs were outside pets — no shots, no flea treatments, and certainly no spaying or neutering. They ate table scraps, and canned food only made an appearance when it was on sale. Teeth cleaning was unheard of, their real coats were their only clothing, and the bones they received were the genuine article — buried in the backyard just as nature intended. It was a simpler time, and the dogs lived accordingly.

The Newlywed Dogs

When Mike and I were newlyweds, two thoroughly useless dogs entered the picture — Ella and Oso. They were ridiculous from the start, and a no-pets clause in the rental agreement made the decision for us. Ella and Oso had to go.

Oso was rehomed with a hippie we worked with, which seemed like a fine arrangement for everyone — except Oso. He never forgave the betrayal. On the occasions we crossed paths again, he refused to acknowledge me. Not a glance, not a wag. Just a cold, dignified silence that only a dog who felt wronged could pull off.

Solo

Solo was a cocker spaniel with a sweet disposition and a serious abandonment complex. He was, without apology, a big crybaby — prone to howling at lengths that tested everyone’s patience. A specialist was consulted. The trainer’s advice: put coins in an empty can and throw it out the window when the crying starts. It was tried. It did not work.

As Solo aged, a new problem emerged — a body odor so profound that proximity became difficult for anyone in the room. A tile man installing new kitchen flooring lasted only so long before politely requesting that Solo be moved to the garage so he could finish the job. Eventually, the situation demanded a special diet just to manage the stench. And as if that weren’t enough, Solo was a flea magnet — regular treatments notwithstanding, the fleas claimed him as their own.

In his final season, Solo went both blind and deaf, which introduced an entirely new set of complications —  the pool. From somewhere in the house, my son Mikos would holler from his room, “Solo fell in the pool!” — and that was the signal to drop everything and run. It happened often enough to become routine. The repeated falls led to chronic ear infections, and in the end, Solo was laid to rest by Deanna, our babysitter.

Reisa Ciriza

Reisa Ciriza was a golden retriever with a singular life ambition: chase balls and swim. Of all the dogs, she was the finest in temperament.

Once, overcome with grief and distress, I opened the door and let Reisa inside — and she gently licked away my tears. It was as if God Himself had sent her to bring me peace.

Reisa’s end, fittingly, came by way of her greatest joy — my nieces threw the tennis ball one too many times, and Reisa, ever faithful to the game, simply couldn’t stop until she couldn’t go on.

Big Mel

Big Mel arrived as a gift from a neighbor — a massive golden retriever with what could only be described as a narcissism problem. He knocked over small children intentionally, had burned through three families, and was facing the end of the line. We took him in as his last chance.

True to form, Big Mel proved to be a Houdini. Every trash day, he engineered an escape and made his rounds through the neighborhood, toppling bins with what appeared to be genuine satisfaction. He was too much to handle, and eventually made the move to Santa Barbara with Mikos — and that is where everything changed.

The two became inseparable. While Mikos attended classes, Big Mel worked the beach, and before long the entire community knew him, police included. Mikos still tells the story of a patrol car pulling up, the officer opening the back door, and Big Mel jumping out as if the ride had been perfectly ordinary. He let himself into the house using his nose. He lived on his own terms, right up until the end. We were all there the day he went to dog heaven. Mikos took his collar and buried it at Ledbetter Beach.

Shadrach Angelico, the Swimmer

The last dog was Shadrach Angelico Ciriza — and he arrived with a full name that suited his outsized personality. He suffered from what could generously be called ADD, ADHD, and general chaos. The dining table was chewed. The kitchen door was chewed. Several backyard hoses met the same fate. The telephone repairman’s equipment did not survive contact with Shadrach. He escaped regularly, and on one memorable occasion broke into a neighbor’s house and ate their dinner.

But summer was his season. He swam daily, and laps were done together — Shadrach always winning. In his later years, he could no longer pull himself out of the pool without help. His back deteriorated, and the end came quietly. His last day was spent beneath the St. Francis water fountain in the backyard. It was a peaceful exit — St. Francis calling him gently home.

Dog Free

The decision was eventually made to go dog-free. Travel made it practical, and the years of chewed furniture, pool rescues, and escaped artists had earned some peace. Now there are two grand-dogs who visit when their families come. Paco devotes himself to barking at airplanes, lizards, and anything that dares to make a sound. Rosie is a sweet, mild-mannered golden who is thoroughly convinced she is a lap dog — and unlike her ancestors, she wants nothing to do with the pool.

My Prayer

Dear Lord, Thank You for the gift of the animals You have placed in our lives. You created them in Your wisdom and goodness, and entrusted them to our care as stewards of Your creation.

May we never take them for granted, never cause them needless suffering, and always remember that in caring for them, we honor You, their Maker and ours.

We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Late August 2005

The largest and third-strongest hurricane in American history made landfall on the Gulf Coast. Hurricane Katrina arrived with 175-mile-per-hour winds, a 20-foot storm surge, and destruction spread across 90,000 square miles. By the time she made landfall, her winds had weakened to 125 miles per hour. The death toll reached 1,836. Louisiana bore the worst of it. Mississippi lost 238.

Diann, her daughter Tayler, and their dog Angel made it out. This is their story.

Diann

Diann’s home was completely destroyed — submerged under nine and a half feet of water. The water stayed in her house for over three weeks.

For those first three weeks, Diann, her daughter Tayler, and their dog Angel evacuated to Alabama to stay with family. From there they made their way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, moving in with her Nanaine — French for “godmother.” Santa Fe became home for the next nine months.

Diann made two trips back to New Orleans to handle personal business. She needed to apply for a federal grant to rebuild and fill out the paperwork for a FEMA trailer. Once she got clearance, they moved back. The trailer sat in her driveway while the house was restored.

The Holy Encounter

Diann, a single mother, was devastated — so devastated that all she had left was prayer. She visited the Eucharistic Adoration chapel at her local parish regularly. The chapel had sustained significant water damage from Hurricane Katrina, and as a result, the paint was scaling off the statue of Mary.

After Katrina, Diann returned to the chapel for private prayer. She had been sitting and praying for about fifteen minutes when she looked up at the statue of Mary and, with tears in her eyes, cried out, “I’m lost. I don’t know what to do. I need help!”

Suddenly, she heard a distinct, soft voice say, “Make me pretty again.”

Diann looked around the chapel to find where the voice was coming from, but she was completely alone. Just as she began to wonder whether she was losing her mind, the soft voice repeated, “Make me pretty again.”

“Mother Mary,” Diann whispered, “are you speaking to me?”

A third time, she heard it: “Make me pretty again.” (1 Samuel 3, John 20)

She prayed quietly, “Mother Mary, I truly don’t know what to do. What would you like me to do?”

Then she heard a single word — repeated three times: “Michael. Michael. Michael.”

She remained in the chapel a few more minutes, sitting with the mystery of what she had received. She knew this had been a holy encounter, something that had lifted her into a new spiritual awareness. Yet she left with a heavy heart, unable to understand what the name Michael meant.

She turned it over and over in her mind — Michael, Michael, Michael — until suddenly, a revelation broke through: Three Michaels. Oh! Michaels — the craft store!

Without wasting a moment, she drove straight there. She found an employee and asked where she could find supplies for painting religious statues. For eight dollars, Diann walked out with everything she needed.

Special Permission

Diann knew she needed special permission to carry out this commission from God. She contacted the president of the men’s group at the parish for guidance. His first question was direct: “Have you ever painted before?”

“No, sir,” she answered honestly.

He told her he would need to check with the pastor first. By the providence of God, permission was granted. Diann had no idea what she was up against — but she was obedient to the words spoken to her.

Doing Work Unto the Lord

The statue of Mary was moved to a back room, and Diann got to work — talking to Mary, as she always does. When she finished, she stepped back and considered the cloak. The original color was slate gray, and something about it felt too dark. Then she heard it: “Blue.”

“Oh, I can do blue highlights!” she responded.

She completed the work through much prayer. From there, she moved on to the crucifix — touching up and repainting Jesus’ legs, chest, and Crown of Thorns, then adding gold highlights to His hair.

The Blessing

Diann had already been taken advantage of by two unscrupulous out-of-town contractors, losing $14,000 by trusting strangers with her property. Then, within a week of completing the repainting of Mary and the crucifix, she was approved for a $150,000 grant through the Road Home program — established by President Bush to help those devastated by Hurricane Katrina rebuild their lives. The grant she received was the largest amount available. Not everyone was so fortunate.

Catholic Charities

Through Catholic Charities, volunteers from Kansas City and California came to her rescue. These generous souls removed all the mold and stripped the house down to its original studs — her beloved New Orleans Colonial Cottage reduced to bare bones. The work took three days. But Diann’s beautiful 100-year-old floors had warped severely, and it took her a full year to find an honest contractor. By then, the floors had dried out on their own — and the original one-and-a-half-inch antique heart pine floors were saved. One more blessing added to the rest.

Giving Back

Overwhelmed with gratitude, Diann wanted to give back. She began driving through her neighborhood, seeking out damaged religious statues in need of care. Working from the table in her FEMA trailer, she lovingly restored them one by one. To date, she has restored more than 100 statues — each one offered freely as a gift to the homeowner.

Eucharistic Adoration

At the Last Supper Jesus instituted the Eucharist as His body and blood.

Catholics practice Eucharistic Adoration to draw closer to Jesus. And where Jesus is, Mary is never far — for it was from her that our Lord received His flesh. Conceived by the Holy Spirit, Jesus took His human nature entirely from Mary, and in His outward appearance, He bore her likeness.

Mary was immaculately conceived — preserved from all stain of original sin from the first moment of her existence — because she was divinely chosen to be the Mother of God. She has been fittingly compared to the Ark of the Covenant: just as the Ark carried the presence of God, Mary carried God Himself within her womb.

Eucharistic Adoration draws us into that same mystery. In the silence before the Blessed Sacrament, the Lord reaches out to us — not through words, but through presence. The fruit of that encounter is peace, and something deeper still: we begin, slowly, to become more like Him.

A Prayer Before the Blessed Sacrament

Dear Lord, may we all learn to adore You. Allow us to hear Your still, small voice. May we be obedient to the gentle promptings of Your most precious Mother, Mary. Amen.