Why We Need Scruffy

His face has been marked by time. Age spots discolor one eyelid. The back edge of his lower lip sags a bit. Slow responses and shuffling gait, both amplified by apparent hearing loss, speak of many sunsets.

When I was a child in the half-dozen years after World War II, my mother casually mentioned a "hobo network." This revelation came when a down-and-out fellow stopped by our house, and Mother gave him food. He sat on the front steps and devoured every morsel before ambling away, leaving the utensils for Mother to scald in boiling water… just to be sure.

Hoboes, she confided with a degree of certainty, have a mysterious system of "marking" houses so their fellow vagabonds will know where to stop for handouts. I don't if our house was marked and have no recollection of other hungry tramps.

Not so today. There must really be a network for hoboes of every ilk, and we have been invisibly, mysteriously marked for their visitations. Drop-ins are irregular but persistent. And they always tend to linger, seeking something more than food.

We call the latest "Scruffy" to conform to our first impression. His old fur was gray and loosely matted… but there were no signs of ill treatment or deprivation.

We assumed he'd seen "the mark" and popped in for a handout before ambling on. But he's shown no inclination to leave. He's a harmless old fellow, but our other cats see trouble. BrudderMan avoids the backyard, and Maudie Nell insists on using a side window rather than the back door.

Still, there are plusses. Scruffy doesn't move quickly and appears oblivious to the birds and squirrels in the backyard. He just sits and watches them feed without fear of green-eyed devils. As Ma Ingles always said, "There's never any great loss without some small gain."

There's another fringe benefit for us. Unlike our other cats, Scruffy begs to be held and petted. He radiates therapeutic calm whenever we pick him up and scritch his tattered ears. And he seems content with the least tenderness. Regular brushing has even erased his rag-tag appearance.

I've helplessly watched the aging process gradually chip away the granite of my youth, creating an image of human scruffiness I can't shake loose. In addition to droops and sags here and there, there's also a creeping slowness in reactions and interests.

But buried deep within what I'm slowly becoming are hidden nuggets of costly experience--wrought from life one year at a time. One of them is a reminder that to be truly needed by someone else is a priceless tonic. And to be faithful and content in whatever humble service comes our way is of more enduring value than darting after every butterfly that flits across the path.

Scruffy has been good for us. We've needed each other.

And a good scritch on the head hasn't hurt anything at all… for any of us.

Copyright 2002 James McAlister

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