The mystery of Mithril 1.0

By Bruce W. Marold

Hello. My name is Mithril, the theological cat. I’m subbing for Morgan, who has gone on a long sabbatical, to recharge his batteries and find some new stories to tell. As you can see, I like to keep up with the mail, especially the weekly reviews of new books published by the Journal of Biblical Studies.

 

Based on this remarkable El Greco painting of St. Francis, my  early days have lead me to the grey habit of the Franciscans, but since most of my education has come from the Moravians, I am inclined to begin with my very own Lebenslauf (German for path of life.)

 

 

My birth is cloaked in mystery, as I was rescued by a disciple o f the order of The Cat Shack. I suppose my first human thought the friar’s life demanded a period of fasting in the wilderness, so I was cast adrift in the wild at the tender age of six weeks. Now, unlike the wilds of the Ettenmoors, where Bilbo’s Elven coat of Mithril was found (See third picture), and after which I am named (usually with the fuller appellation Mithril the Indestructible) I found bits of stuff which my rubbly tummy and adolescent lack of caution led me to eat. That was a BAD decision.

After filling my poor belly with lollypop sticks and cigarette butts, I was rescued by said Nun and given the name of Roger. It took but half a day for my desperate meal (?) to get the better of me, and I was near death. I was rushed to the veterinarian where I had to be opened, like a zipper, from foremast to aftercastle. My sweet disciple caretaker nursed me back to health, until one could hardly see my scar, which is now totally hidden by a luxuriant growth of silver-grey and white fur.

I was adopted by a novice theologian, who needs my instruction in the ways of duty, honor, belly scratching, and timely meals. I found myself in isolation, separated from an older pair of siblings, including a sweet young tabby and a very picky Jellicle … named Jelly. Go figure. My inexperienced servant had no clue about the malleability of a kitty’s body. I escaped my cell in a thrice. I was returned to my isolation, whereupon the Jelly man duplicated the feat, and oozed under the French doors to check me out and tell me that HE is the boss in this household. We’ll see.

[Shhh. Tell no one that Mithril, as transcribed by Boswell, is otherwise known as Bruce W. Marold, a member of Trinity Bethlehem who holds a masters in theology from Moravian Theological Seminary ... and enjoys an especially creative mind.]