It's funny where you can learn a life's lesson from, or see one of the Lord's teachings in action. The Lord taught us to "love thine enemies" (but the vast majority of us never really learned). Yesterday, I watched this played out in fairly dramatic fashion, although in the animal kingdom.

Among several others, we have two neutered male cats, Frankie, and Chinky. Frankie is a lithe, black and white shorthaired firecracker that looks like Sylvester from Looney Tunes. Chinky is longer-haired, predominantly white, with some random striped patches, plus his most immediately noticeable feature: a startlingly vivid, orange-y lion's nose, running up the middle of a white face.

They are exact opposites. Frankie is the most loving cat I have ever seen. He loves everybody, whether they love him or not. Other cats in particular, and no cat in particular. He just loves everyone. Not everyone loves him, but he doesn't mind. If you ever saw the movie, 'Over the Hedge', Frankie is the embodiment of the character 'Hammie' in that movie. Just full of love and enthusiasm.

Now, Chinky... Chinky is not a cat's cat. He never was. He couldn't be bothered with other cats, and he hates Frankie. Oh, HATES him...

Chinky came from a litter of 6 kittens, all much like him in appearance, except for his rather dramatic looking sniffer. This is a cat, whom, as a mere whiff of a kitten, had all five of his siblings cowering and trembling in the corner of their litter box, so he could have the whole hallway where their pen was to himself. He stood there sideways, arched up, yowling his vehemence at them in a voice that was out of this world, and far too big for a kitten that small, while they all did their best to be thee one in the corner furthest away from him. We thought he was rabid or had eaten something poisonous, or had a brain tumor or something. We took him out of the pen, and he was happy as a clam. Nothing wrong at all. He went off to explore. A few hours later, we put him back in. All seemed fine... until we left, then the unearthly yowling started again, and there were the five others, back piled on top of each other in the litter box, shaking in their (puss'n') boots. Chinky was in the same pose as before: standing there sideways, the entire floor area to himself, puffed up like a feather boa, his legs stiff as two by fours, strutting, his head cocked at an absolutely unreal angle toward them, eyes (and eyebrows) glowering ferociously at them, and that insane asylum yowling in full pitch. Good grief, he was almost scary to us, and him just a 5 or 6 week old kitten.

It wouldn't do to make the five others live their days with us living in stark terror of the rabid lunatic they were born with, and stuck in the corner of the litter box for self-preservation. We took Chinky out, and let him have the run of the house. Immediately, the others relaxed, and were soon tumbling around their hallway, sparring away with each other in kitten-y delight.

Time went on. We gave away four of the kittens, but Brenda had grown very attached to Chinky, and another male she named Buddy. Chinky seemed to have settled down. He still didn't go out of his way to commune with any other cat, but no longer seemed intent on killing anything feline in the immediate vicinity, either.

Frankie showed up one morning. I mean, just showed up. I went outside to feed the cats, and he just walked up to the dish with everyone else, and started to eat. Acted like he'd been around all his life. I looked down at him happily munching away between my feet, and said, half to each of us, "And just who might you be, lil' fella?", bemused at his total comfort with other cats that should have been strange to him, and me, that should have been, also. He looked up at me and just smiled. Yeah, smiled. I don't care if you don't think a cat can smile--Frankie smiled. I picked him up. He was all for that. He just reached out to me with his arms (it's hard to call Frankie's front legs 'legs', because he hugs you around the neck with them like arms), and hugged my neck, and just purred like a corn-fed coon. No hesitation, no nothing. Brenda was at the back door, so I went to it, and she opened it to see what was going on. I held Frankie out at arm's length towards her, and said, "Lookit this", and he just reached out to her and wrapped his arms around her neck, and snuggled her--and never missed a beat purring. Like he'd known us all his roughly 6 month old life.

That was it; he was here to stay.

Chinky is a very loving cat when it comes to Brenda and I. Especially Brenda. Remember the TV show, 'Dinosaurs', and Baby Dinosaur's catch phrase, "Not the Momma!", well, that's how Chinky acts towards me when he has Brenda as an alternative. He will literally push me off with his paws from Brenda's shoulder. He does this thing we call his 'Power Snuggle'; he'll turn his head at that unreal angle and just drive his nose and forehead into your cheek or neck. He only wants to be on a shoulder, not a lap. Never turn your back on Chinkie, or he'll make a leap straight for your shoulder. He'll do it to your face, also, and fix you with a rather startling sizing up look before he makes an expertly calculated leap for his prize. Funny thing is, once he's there, and comfortably esconced with one front paw protruding way out over your back, he'll smack his lips three times, and immediately--I mean immediately--dose off. A far cry from the ferocious, rabid, poisoned, brain tumor nutcase he was before, huh?

For all Frankie loves us, oh my goodness, he loves other cats even more. Never seen the likes of it. Frankie is nearly always jammed in tight with one of the other cats, especially Tigger, our fat, lazy, dark tabby, or Fuff: Brenda's big, fat, snooty, aristocratic, long-haired calico. Frankie, although now an adult (well, somewhat), still fully expects to be washed from stem to stern each time he acosts another cat for feline attention--and he needs nearly endless amounts of it. Fuff has more than enough acreage of her own to cover without his, but wash him she does, half a dozen times or more a day. Tigger too. Frankie is the cleanest cat in the world. It's a wonder he isn't bald.

One evening, a couple of weeks after Frankie's sudden appearance on the scene, we were watching TV in the office, and all the herd was outside except Frankie and Chinky. (We'd named him 'Frankie' after Frank, the beaver, in the Bell Sympatico and cell phone commericals). Chinky was even reluctantly letting Frankie snuggle him. We were watching Frankie's snugglings and general loving up of Chinkie in amusement, given Chinky's nasty beginnings. Frankie stepped up the snuggling, and rolled right in tight along side Chinky, all set for a good reward washing, when all of a sudden, a LOOK came over Chinky's face, and he jumped down onto the floor, turned sideways, went totally stiff and arched up, and cocked his head that unreal, broken neck angle towards Frankie. Frankie took one startled, instantly horrified look at that living nitemare staring back at him, and dove under the couch. Chinkie hadn't even got his reality-distorting yowl revved up yet, and Frankie was GONE. Vapor. I would have been, too, if I was a cat, and the object of that mass murderer glare.

I said it then and there: "Oh, this is bad..."

That moment changed everything. Frankie had unwittingly overstepped his invisible boundary with Chinky. From then on, Chinky was on the ambush for Frankie. Frankie lived in constant terror of one of Chinky's blitzkrieg attacks. Chinky might very well have killed him if Frankie wasn't so lightning fast; his already-impressive speed further enhanced by terror-induced adrenaline. He always managed to get away from Chinky and under whatever cover he could find--or even make, as he made a mad rush for anything half big enough to house him, and not Chinky.

Almost a year of this has gone by. Every effort has been made to keep Frankie safe from Chinky. We'd never leave the two of them in the same building if we were going away. It just wasn't safe.

In reality, we eventually discovered Chinky is just feline version of a schoolyard bully. His bark (or whatever) is actually worse than his bite. He just learned that a facade can be everything, but never had to develop anything to back it up. Tigger doesn't take any guff off of him. George, our short-haired, mutant-footed top cat, only has to give Chinky one quick warning glare, and Chinky dives for cover. Frankie, for all his lovebug cuddliness, is one heck of a wrestler, and can make Tigger yell in a play fight, and has even gotten--albiet foolhardishly--into a couple of real scuffles with George, when George flat-out refused to wash him. George doesn't wash other cats, period. Oh--unless they're female, and very in the mood for attention...

If only Chinky could see Frankie getting huffy with George, the bullying would be all over... Frankie doesn't know it, but he could take Chinky easily.

Chinky has calmed down a little bit towards Frankie. He seemed to begin to tolerate Frankie being alive. Slowly, over the last two weeks, he'd even let Frankie very cautiously eat near him.

Yesterday, Frankie's boundless love and forgiveness manifested itself in a beautiful, touching way. Chinky was out on a hunt, and came home with a big burr on the top of the middle of his back. He came in, and went straight for the food dish, so the hunt maybe wasn't all that successful. Frankie saw him go by with that big burr in his fur. Likely fully aware of the danger of doing so, Frankie still went right up to Chinky while Chinky was eating, put his front paws on Chinky's back, and set to combing and pulling that burr out of Chinky's fur! He absolutely expertly removed the entire burr in one piece, and spat it out on the floor. Chinky looked down at the burr he likely couldn't have reached himself (even given his remarkable flexibility), stood there and philosophically pondered it laying on the floor for a moment, and then went back to eating his meal. Frankie stayed there and watched him.

Last night, Chinky and Frankie slept side by side on the bed.

At an official reception during the Civil War, President Abraham Lincoln was sharply criticised by a lady attending the function, for his mild-mannered words against his enemies. "Why, Madam," responded President Lincoln, "do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?" No human alive knows this concept better than four-footed Frankie. He is the embodiment of this very principle, that harkens right back to our Lord's loving admonishion to us about that very thing 2000 years ago. We all would do well to take the Lord's advice, and Frankie's brave, self-less example to heart.

Now, if Frankie (whom possesses a low IQ for a cat) can get both the Biblical concepts of forgiving your brother seventy times seven (Mat 18: 21-22) AND loving your enemies down pat, why can't we also? It's a pretty good lesson, and from the unlikely source of a stray cat.