But why do I assume that this “it” is a reincarnation of a human being?

It — whether a he or a she I cannot tell — comes slinking outside my shul window every morning, just before our minyan reaches the Hodu section.

The window is at ground level, so I get a good look at it every single day: gray-green eyes, rusty brown furry skin on its body, mutating into motley blotches of brown and gray on its four legs. Nose to the ground, shifting and swaying from side to side, (shall I say, reminiscent of davening?) it seems to be searching, ever searching (shall I say, for something precious that it lost?). Occasionally it pauses to gaze (shall I say, to contemplate and meditate?) at the bushes, then turns its head, places two paws on the window, stares at us (shall I say, longingly?) and then moves on, stealthily, warily (shall I say, sorrowfully?).

It is quite punctual. Every morning just before Hodu, precisely at 6:35, it dutifully makes its appointed rounds, following the same ritual, the same path, the same movements, its tail slowly wagging — better: dragging — behind it.

You do not have to be a Sherlock Holmes to realize by now that this “it” is a cat. Most cats are female, but one cannot be certain, so I use “it” — though it has a personality of its own and certainly deserves a more distinguished cognomen.

Who is this not very beautiful cat? I close my eyes and give my imagination some space.

Could this be a transmigration, a reincarnation, of someone generations ago who never ever attended his community’s daily minyan, even when they needed a tenth? Is his daily slinking outside the shul window, his pawing at the window, a kind of penance? This might explain the longing and regret I think I saw in its eyes.

Perhaps. But why be so harsh on this lowly, defenseless creature? Maybe its human forebear was the kind of individual who faithfully attended every minyan — Shacharis, Minchah, Maariv — seven days a week, always present, never missing a day. But there was one flaw: He never arrived on time. Habitually, he would appear ten minutes late to every single minyan, be it morning, evening, Friday night, Shabbos morning, Yom Tov, Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur. He never missed, was always there — and always late. And always by the identical ten minutes. Is his current manifestation a form of repetitive contrition?

But why do I assume that this “it” is a reincarnation of a human being? Yes, the Talmud does suggest that certain misdeeds can result in one’s return as a nonhuman (as in Bava Kamma 15b-16a, and in Yerushalmi Shabbos 1:3), but nowhere do the Sages mention that we might return as a cat. So please, dear cat, accept my apologies. You might simply be the most recent manifestation of a long line of felines, rather than the transmigration of an ancient shul-goer. (Note the sudden shift from the impersonal, cold third person “it” to the much warmer second person “you.”)

My friend the cat, you are neither beautiful nor a special breed: not a Cheshire cat, or an Angora cat, or a Maltese, or a Persian, or a Siamese cat. Just a plain run-of-the-mill alley cat are you, who for some mysterious reason likes the proximity (shall I say, is comforted by?) the shul.

My apologies to you, but as the prophet Yirmiyahu says in his chapter 17, complex and convoluted are we humans, beyond understanding. To which King Shlomo adds, in his Mishlei 19, “Rabbos machshavos b’lev ish… — a multitude of thoughts are in the heart of man….” (Really now: giving precise Biblical sources to a cat?) My human convolutions ascribe kabbalistic gilgul and tikkun and transcendent incarnations to you, but please ignore these mental peregrinations. A cat you were born, a cat you will remain, and as a cat you will go to feline heaven for being at the minyan every morning — even though you invariably arrive a few minutes late….

On second thought, it is completely reasonable that you never come on time, for that preliminary section of the davening is, for you, completely irrelevant. There is no need for you to thank G-d for giving you the Torah, or for granting you a pure soul, or for not having made you a heathen, or to be commanded to study the Torah. So it makes good sense (shall I mention good sense when addressing a cat?) to absent yourself from this section.

Good night, enigmatic one. I have no idea of your origins, nor you of mine, but you have left your paw-print on me, and I look forward to your daily visits. As Freud is said to have said, “Time spent with a cat is never wasted.”

Where or how you spend your nights is not my concern, but of this I am confident: Tomorrow morning, rain or shine, stormy or pleasant, you will be padding silently by my shul window, right on schedule. I hope you find what you are looking for, and that even after you find it (is it merely your breakfast?) you will still continue to make your regular appearance (shall I say, religiously and faithfully?).

I do not know your gender, but plain and unlovely as you are, please know that for me, because you spurred me to wonder and reflect, you will always be much more than a mere “It.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1090)