Niki Anderson ~ Author & Speaker

     Tuesday, March 6, 2012, Myles graduated to his heavenly reward. For 16 years, he delighted me as I retold the stories of hundreds of cats. Myles was pictured with me on my first book jacket, my home page, and a later trade book, and press sheets, and his was my favorite story in Whiskers, Wit, and Wisdom.

     All the years I sat composing, he watched from a nearby desk or sat between the keyboard and the monitor as I typed inspirational accounts of cats who teach us lessons for life that point us to God.

     Myles, whose name we spelled with the letter y, acquired the nickname “Myles-with-a-y.” The y seemed more distinguished than Miles with an i. For sure, he was a gentle and distinguished fellow.

     From a pet foster org, we rescued first his brothers Earl and Murray who were a medium and large version of mini-size Myles. Like triplets, all three boys wore silky orange coats with only a few white rings near the tips of their tails.

     Myles was adopted as an after-thought. In the display cage at PetCo, Myles and his brothers had waited for a friendly shopper. Though friendly, we were shopping for one cat only. Husband Bob weakened and convinced me to take two of the three kittens—one more kitty than we’d ever owned at once. Soon at home with the furry duet, a persisting realization chided Bob. “We really shouldn’t have split up the brothers,” he told me. The littlest guy was left behind.

     For three days, I wrestled with Bob’s emotional coaxing to return for the third wee sibling. My mind toggled between the homeless kitten and the housekeeping facts. Three cats would be triple the cat hair on my clothes, bed, and antique velvet chairs. But sentiment won. We returned for Myles. He outlived his bigger brothers by close to a decade.

     A shy guy was my Myles. When the doorbell rang, he sped for refuge under the bed. Not the alpha cat among the three, he didn’t push for the best chair or the first treat. Submissive, mild and easygoing, his hallmark trait was his devotion to me. Though not stingy with his affection for the family, he loved me above all.

      Perhaps his obvious favor began the afternoon we reunited him with his siblings. His brothers were less than cordial when Myles arrived. In fact, he met with hissing rejection from his litter mates. I suspect Earl and Murray were gloating over their giant leap from the pet store cage to the feline playground in our basement, equipped with a multi-level cat tree and first rate buffets. They weren’t eager to share it even with their come-lately brother. I snatched Myles from among his rude brothers, cradled the citrus size, tangerine puff, and rocked him. “It’s going to be all right,” I whispered.

     Soon, the cats bonded again and in the following years they brought us endless joy. Earl chose my husband. Murray took to my son. And Myles claimed me with lavish devotion that I cherished.

     Due to unresolved senior aches and ouches that accompany a vocation at the computer, I formally retired from career writing just four months ago. It seems fitting that Myles also would retire from his calling to assist and befriend the cat book author. He had developed his own set of senior diseases that had become obviously intolerable.

     Myles was met at heaven’s gate by McCoy, Addie, Clawdia, Thurlough, Dennis, Wesson, Gary, Cynthia, Margo, Hamilton, and his brothers, Earl and Murray, all previous Anderson cats.

     Five things will forever endear me to my longest living pet:

Myles’ cowlick. Midway down his spine, a small tuft of orange fur stuck straight up like a rock star's spiked haircut. Given the current trend for green, pink or orange hair, Myles was “in” with his red tabby tresses. But the bane of Myle’s cowlick destined him for a lifetime of bad hair days. No amount of brushing, nor any change in humidity ever calmed those stray hairs that pointed skyward all his nine lives.

His dreamy eyes. The brothers looked so much alike that in the beginning we identified them by the different colors of their collars. But Myles’ dreamy eyes soon set him apart. His heavy lids and the slight slant of his golden eyes, gave him a sweet and pensive gaze that made him unique.

His easy-going nature. Myles never scratched or bit me or grandchildren or strangers, and never forgot his feline mother’s mouthy grip. No matter how you picked him up, he went limp in your grasp the way a kitten surrenders to its mother’s hold at the nap of its neck. Always trusting, never squirming, wiggling or straining for a more comfortable position, Myles dangled like a silk shawl over my arm.

His unyielding ownership of his rug. Myles’ favorite resting place was the Asian area rug on the floor at the foot of the bed. Though he was kindly tolerant of three later cats who came and passed during his lifetime, he declined to share his rug. He and feline sister Clawdia played a game of “attack and chase” at noon most every day. Clawdia laid her paw on the rug, or settled herself at the fringed edge, teasing Myles to defend his throne. Myles sprang to his feet and routed the aggressor with every threat. Returning to his carpet, he’d wait for Clawdia to advance again and challenge his claim to the sacred rug. He willingly shared his family and his house, but never his carpet.

His unconventional relationship with his toys. Myles owned a basket filled with a mix of mice, balls, and catnip pouches of all brands and colors, squeaks, and rattles. But when he grew old, he stopped playing with them. Yet he loved it when I emptied the basket on his rug, commented about each toy, shaking one and twirling another, while he watched with excitement. Myles was the cat who died with the most toys.

I’m reveling in Christmas.

I’m not focused on Matthew’s blessed history of “shepherds abiding in the fields” though I never tire of reading the story.

Nor have I thought much about three astrologers traveling in search for the king of Israel, though I’ve always been curious about Melchior, Caspar, and Balthazar.

Neither have I lingered over the scriptures relating Joseph’s reassuring dream to take Mary as his wife, or even the star over the stable in Bethlehem.

Why? Christmas didn’t begin in Bethlehem of Judea. It began in the plan of God before the foundations of the world, and was first mentioned by God Himself in the Garden of Eden. Christmas? Yes, Christmas.

The first promise of Christ is recorded in Genesis when God addresses the serpent. God said of Eve, “Her offspring [Christ] will crush your [the serpent’s] head, and you [the serpent] will strike his [Christ’s] heel.” God foretold the defeat of the tempter at the cost of his stricken Son.

The promise of a deliverer continued through Abraham the father of faith, and Judah the son of Isaac; through Rahab the redeemed dove of Jericho, through Jesse and his son David.

Hundreds of years forward the promise waited after Solomon and Josiah and after Jacob the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary and later parent to Jesus. Forty-two generations lived and died, knowing Christmas would come—someday.

After Assyria ransacked Israel and Babylon carried off Judah, four hundred years of silence transpired between the last mention of a prophet, or king, a message or messenger. Then suddenly. God broke the silence. He so LOVED his world that he GAVE his SON.

My heart has filled to swelling with John 3:16. “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son.” LOVE ended the centuries of waiting. A virgin conceived.

LOVE bombarded the last silent year. LOVE smote the darkness. LOVE arrived with the answer. God so LOVED the world. And God GAVE when He planted in young Mary the seed of Himself. LOVE gave us the Son to show us the likeness of God and to provide a sacrifice for sin.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son.” It’s the verse we memorize in Sunday school, and commonly view in December on billboards and business placards. It’s the theme of Christmas, the heartbeat of God.

This season, I marvel. Because God LOVED me, because God GAVE His only Son to Adam and Eve in the garden, and to Niki in Spokane, and to all the world who will invite him to the manger of their hearts.

Merry, merry Christmas, Niki Anderson

             I’ve battled reluctance. Avoided an explanation and procrastinated to the dismay of a few by denying them an update on my health.

     Recently, a friend commented on my silence. “I keep thinking you’ll let us know about your shoulder.”

Shame on me. When I think I’ll surely bore you, I insult your genuine interest.

     When older folks wax long about surgeries, medications and pain, I maintain eye contact and express sincere concern. I care. I really want to know. So why haven’t I given each of you that much, as well? Please forgive me, the reluctant reporter.

     Findings from three x-rays and three MRIs showed bone spurs both above and below the hardware previously implanted in my neck that fuses two vertebrae. Also visible is a bone spur and arthritis in my shoulder and a slight disc bulge in the lower spine.

     An injection of cortisone, visits to a massage therapist and treatments from a physical therapist, a regimen of exercises, a medication (No thanks! Caused heart-racing and dizziness!) and a three-month break from serious writing concluded with these decisions.

     Surgery is not advised. Cortisone helped only 90 days; I’m scheduled for another injection. Not surprising, the pain is minimal—at least tolerable—if I’m off the computer, refrain from gardening, and use my left arm more than my stronger yet vulnerable right arm.

     Do I like it? Yes to “surgery-not-advised.” No to the certainty of pain when I write and do life as usual. Like vacuuming?

     But I’m a writer, and we writer-types do not surrender the keyboard easily. I confess, however, at times I’ve come close to shelving my author hat. Pain is persuasive.

     But I keep trying, pacing, and hoping to fulfill a few more writing dreams. Like Jeremiah, my heart burns when inspiration swells my soul. Aroused by some golden truth washing over me, I’m compelled to tell someone with words, spoken or written.

     Sometimes the overflow falls on the ears of women I lead in Bible study; at other times I draft an article, expound to my husband or preach to the cat. But today I’ve shared with you the words that reveal an ongoing struggle.

     An overriding conviction in the quandary between my desire to write versus the resulting pain is this grand fact. However God leads, to write a lot or a little, will be the best course. Until convinced I should turn fully to other ministries, I’ll be writing some rather than none.

October in Spokane: You’re invited to Brambleberry Cottage and Tea Shoppe for High Tea (an elegant English luncheon) where I’ll sign my books and sip tea with you and your friends. Proceeds will benefit Colville Pet Refuge. Make reservations ($29 per person) at 509-926-3293 or visit www.brambleberrycottage.com/events.html for location, a peek at the cat-theme menu, and online reservations.

November in New York: I’ll be teaching a class at the Cat Writers Association conference in White Plains, New York. Whiskers, Wit and Wisdom won a Certificate of Excellence in the annual contest and is eligible for other awards to be announced at the Awards Banquet.

Christmas Sale on autographed books: What My Cat Has Taught Me About Life, $15.00; Ins-pur-r-r-ational Stories for Cat Lovers, $10; Whiskers, Wit, and Wisdom, $15. Call 509-720-0634.

Recommended Books: This summer I read All Together in One Place by Jane Kirkpatrick. Click on the title for a brief review. Presently, I’m reading a first book on my Sony E-Reader. The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane may be a classic, but I’ll be glad to finish.

     I'm back! My big break to rest my right arm and to doctor the shoulder that hindered my writing, ends now with the colorful beginning of fall.

     Take a peek at my photos below. Each one captures an aspect of the rest I experienced throughout summer.

     In my next blog, I'll fill you in on the diagnosis of my shoulder, and consequent decisions.

The Comforting Rest of Friendships

Here I'm flanked by two grand ladies, Phyllis Northrop and Marie Mann, after speaking at one of 13 retirement homes and a senior center between May and September.

The Rest of Enjoying My Granddaughter

Eight-year-old Zoe told everyone her proceeds were going for "poor children in Africa" (World Vision), after which one patron gave her $5.00 for a cup of pink lemonade. (Thanks, also, to Pat Damon for the fancy stand!)

The Welcome Rest of Family and Food

Remember the ethnic dinners I serve my son and daughter-in-law? July was MEXICO. The entree was a black bean chili with braised pork and limes. Side dishes included Old El Paso enchiladas and a chile relleno puff. The salsa was homemade and the dessert feature was Mexican chocolate cake with a pecan ganache, served with organic shade-grown Mexican coffee...and cola! Senor husband was the cameraman.

The Rest of DeCluttering 

A lady at my garage sale recognized me as the high school classmate whom she hadn't seen since we last waited each morning for the city bus headed to Lewis & Clark!

The Earthy Rest of Gardening Together

Zoe & I gardened together though she insisted, "Nana, you dig the holes!" So I dug and she set the plants. Labor isn't always even-Steven.

The Rest of Songs from Crooner Bing Crosby!

Discovering what's in your hometown can be as fun as visiting Europe! Well, almost. Girlfriend Kathy Whiteaker and I toured Bing Crosby's childhood home on the Gonzaga University campus and I posed beside the bronze statue that honors our hometown celebrity.

       Hope your summer was as restful as mine! I would love to read your comments about any of my ventures or a few tidbits about some of yours.

Engagements Ahead: I'll be participating at the American Christian Writers conference at Mirabeau Hotel, Spokane, WA, the weekend of Sept. 24th.  It's not too late to register at 800-21-WRITE, (615) 834-0450, www.ACWriters.com, ACWriters@aol.com. Featured teachers will be James Watkins, author and acquisitions editor with Wesleyan Publishing House and ACW Press, and Dr. Dennis Hensley, author and English professor at Taylor University, Fort Wayne, IN.

"Climb a tree. The view is better from on high."

Perspective makes the difference between a prickly situation and the sweet smell of a rose. Alphonse Karr

wrote, "Some people grumble because roses have thorns. I am thankful that thorns have roses."

This spring, while taking a break and waiting for direction, I've gained perspective from God's vantage point. It's made me think of this story from my first book, What My Cat Has Taught Me About Life.

Sarah's black cat, Bianco, climbs trees to test the grip of his claws, to flee from dogs, and to humor the local fire brigade.Like most perched cats, though inept at getting back down, Biano finds pleasure in the view from on high. The perspective above is different from the perspective below. Big things look smaller.

Cats enjoy heights, much to the chagrin of their owners. Like Sarah. The attaining of heights includes landings on the top of her refrigerator, on the topmost shelf in her home office, and on the uppermost box in her storeroom.

Outdoors cats are found on pinnacles of the roof, fence rails, and other high places like tall trees. Bianco rallied the neighborhood and the fire department one summer when he refused to descend a tall pine. Shy Sarah was embarrassed by the arrival of the big red truck and the commotion of children watching the rescue. The fireman quickly delivered Sarah's cat and placed him in her open arms. Hoping to console Sarah, he shared some insight. "You know, Ma'am, I think I know why your cat likes it up there. The view is great! From the top limb he can see that big old barkin' dog over there is chained up. And I bet you didn't know you've got wildflowers growing behind that seven foot fence."

"No sir, I didn't know," she admitted. Sarah wondered if perhaps Bianco's motive for climbing the pine was not to agitate her. If catching an overhead view of his world helped Bianco cope better on the ground, maybe she needed to do more climbing herself.

When Sarah's landscape now becomes imposing, she thinks of Bianco. If pressures, disappointments, and surprises depict a bleak scene on the horizon, she starts climbing. Prayer, uplifting literature, inspiring music, or friendly counsel are means that help her rise from her ground level perspective. Her outlook changes when she views her circumstances from a higher plane. Solutions are more visible and problems appear smaller. The view is always better from ON HIGH.

"Set your mind on things on that are above, not on things on the earth." Colossians 3:2

Financial constraints? Illness? Kids in rebellion? A testy husband or wife? Frustrations? Summer vacation impossible? If you care to share your limb-side insights, please post.