My son and I, we’re spiritual folks…which is to say that we’re really just too damned lazy to get our asses up in time to go to church. We don’t pray much either, except of course, when it’s really needed, like when our team is losing or when I forget to stop and get gas but hit the highway just the same. We do, however, do our very best to respect the fact that others do go to church, that they do pray. It still came as a shock, though, when we discovered that the two of us had adopted the most pious of cats.

It was something my son noticed first, the nightly routine Joey has: he goes into the kitchen, jumps onto the counter, then balances himself just-so on the edge of the sink and closes his eyes to nothing more than a squint, then lifts his chin slowly, sweetly, solemnly towards the heavens. He’ll also purr softly sometimes, or every once in a while, his mouth will crack open with a mew that is low and mournful, coming from deep within him somewhere. We’ve known all along that, when he does this, Joey is talking to Jesus.

This has gone on now for months but just last week, right after dark, my son went into the kitchen, turned on the light and said in a loud whisper, “Mom, come quick.”

I’d just settled in for a half hour with Alex Trebek and I couldn't imagine what could possibly serve as adequate motivation to leave the couch, the remote, and Jeopardy behind. “Damn it, Dylan, no. I just sat down—besides, you should get in here—one of the categories is ‘Ways to Annoy the Shit Out of Your Tired Mom’ and I bet you can run that category.”

“Mom, I’m not joking,” he replied, “you’ve got to get in here.”

“Why?”

And then my son uttered a sentence that any sensible mother would find horrifying, likely landing on the list of “Things You Never Want Your Son to Say to You” somewhere between “I think I’m going to vote Republican” and “I’ve noticed your panties don’t fit me nearly as well since I’ve hit puberty.” Yes, my son said to me, “I see Jesus.”

My body was paralyzed with fear while my mind was spinning with questions of the future, wondering if this were the beginning, my son’s first step into exorcising the demons from the kitchenware when I burn his dinner, laying hands on my flour and sugar when he wants a cake, using his finger to make the sign of the cross over the bag of my trans-fat laden chili-cheese Fritos. I was surely in a trance when my son tapped my knee then held out his hand to help me from the couch. “You’ve got to come see this.”

He led me to the kitchen and just as I came through the doorway, he turned on the light. I looked up and there it was, just like my son had said. “Jesus,” I said under my breath.

“Exactly,” my son replied. And then my son said, “I think that’s the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen.”

“Me too,” I replied, my eyes still following the darkened three inches that was scrabbling about in the cover of the kitchen light. Joey mewed softly from the kitchen counter when we turned to go back to the living room, his eyes still following Jesus when we turned off the light.

I went into the kitchen the next night and when I flipped the lightswitch, there was nothing. Nothing. Dylan came in behind me and said, “I forgot to tell you but I think Jesus is dead.” Nonetheless, Joey was sitting dutifully on the kitchen sink.

My son walked over to the cat, smoothed back his whiskers with a few soft rubs of his fingertips and said, “Don’t get too down, Joey, I’ve read about this. He’ll be back in a few days, maybe by the weekend.”

“Yeah,” I added, “surely in time for the Bowl games.”

My son shot me a dirty look then turned back to the cat. “And when he does come back, Joey, he’ll take all the good cats outside and he’ll hide the Easter eggs and stuff.”

“Unless, of course, he sees his shadow. And if he does, Christmas will last until sometime in January, I think.”

“Sheesh, Mom, shut up—you’re messing up the story and you’re going to end up confusing the cat.”

And God knows, that cat is pretty damn confused already.