YOU would not know it from the Common Worship calendar, but 17 March is the feast day of St Gertrude of Nivelles, the daughter of a Frankish nobleman. Gertrude rejected several marriage proposals to found a Benedictine monastery. She was a great admirer of St Patrick and died on his feast day, venerated as a protector against disease-carrying mice. Recently, she has become the patron saint of cats.
I am sure that cats have a significant place in God’s great design. Our household is still in mourning after the death of our 20-year-old tabby, Tiny. He had suffered in recent years from arthritis, a painful growth in his mouth, kidney problems, and deafness; but still he struggled up and down two flights of stairs, and was capable of terrifying magpies, seagulls, and even foxes who strayed into the garden.
We took him to the vet for the final time on 7 July, and buried him the next morning. I miss him every day. I’m not sure about the theology of pet funerals, but four of us, including our gardener, who used to converse with him in Italian, stood over his grave and sang the Benedicite to the threefold chants that Anglicans used to use at Sunday matins during Lent.
The Book of Felines, a biblical text not known to humans, makes it clear that cats are the exception to the commandment that humanity should have dominion over all living things. They remember that cats were worshipped in ancient Egypt, and they know that they should be in charge, reminding us with their uncanny blend of unsmiling stares and loving, if imperious, affection. Some cats aim high; think of Larry the Cat, Chief Mouser of 10 Downing Street, and Hodge at Southwark Cathedral (News, 11 August 2023).
Tiny was not particularly ambitious. I suspect that he was a closet conservative Evangelical, because he clearly did not believe in women’s headship and generally showed more respect to men, especially those who disliked cats. As Victor Hugo once observed, “God has made the cat to give man the pleasure of caressing the tiger. . .” He was almost right.
When we buried Tiny, we put a terracotta lion (a garden piece brought back from a Sicilian holiday) over his grave, a reminder that Tiny was made in the image of the Lion of Judah.
A few days after Tiny’s burial, I visited a friend whose feline companion is Cephas, a red tabby Balinese who has always seemed to me to be rather superior and detached. But, on this occasion, as soon as I arrived, Cephas came up to greet me and wrapped himself round my legs. When I sat down, he jumped up to sit in my lap: proof, if any were needed, that cats, even in their omniscience, possess true pastoral sensitivity.
