When I am not comparing Gator to Matthew McConaughey or administering squeeze-tuna directly into the mouths of feline celebrities, I am raising money for Tabby’s Place.

(This enables us to procure additional squeeze-tuna for feline celebrities. It’s all full circle.)

I am called “Development Director,” because “Moneypenny” was taken. This carries the occupational hazard of “impact.”

I bang into “impact” more often than I hit my head on the refrigerator door, which is saying a lot. Granting organizations want to see “impact.” Corporations and foundations have meticulous metrics for “impact.”

Tabby’s Place, of course, makes a mighty impact.

We are changing the world for the cats the world forgot. We are building a community of love. We are a sanctuary for at least two species. We are vandalizing the words “hopeless” and “impossible” everywhere we go. We are twelve thousand square feet of mercy. We have rescued forty five hundred cats and enthroned them on the shoulders of unconditional love.

But we have “only” rescued forty five hundred cats.

“Impact” carries an hourglass and an abacus. By “impact”‘s calculations, we could have saved forty two thousand cats by now, if we’d only chosen the easy and the “adoptable.”

“Impact” counts, but it does not feel. “Impact” is brilliant, but blind.

“Impact” cannot see Abacus, whose head is the size of a chocolate moon and whose bladder cost large numbers to unblock.

“Impact” cannot behold Boobalah, who dominates the dance floor in a diaper but may or may not ever be adopted.

“Impact” cannot escape its pod of logic, where all that matters is math.

Meanwhile, Tabby’s Place is feral and free, and all that matters is everyone. Specifically, every one.

The one that matters is Dill. Scarcely larger than his namesake herb, Dill had the appearance of dandelion hairs. He had a biological mother named Sorrel, and a foster mother named Drew, which is to say an angel in Crocs, of whom this world is not worthy.

Dill had more demands than your average rock band. Van Halen might require that you pick out all the yellow M&Ms in their dressing room, but Dill required the sum total of strength and devotion. Dill’s eyes were not yet open, and he had never banged his tiny head into a closed heart. Dill fully expected to be fully adored. Dill did not doubt that his dozens of hourly needs would be met.

Dill died in his sleep, because even under perfect circumstances, a kitten is more fragile than a dandelion hair. Dill died despite having two mothers, one of whom is an angel. But Dill died never knowing that life can be loveless and cold. Dill went from heaven on earth to heaven, with love’s lyrics uninterrupted.

Is this not “impact?”

The one that matters is Stromboli. He was as thin as a shred of part-skim mozzarella. He was melting into the past before he ever heard of a future. He was one orphan in a world of muscles and multitudes. We could save the one, or we could maximize the many.

Stromboli was too light to tilt the scales. He was too singular to excite the mathematicians. He was too sickly to survive, except that he did.

Stromboli lived, because the equation “one = infinity” wreaks havoc with death’s arithmetic. Stromboli lived, because Drew became his mother. Stromboli lived, because one dying dumpling was deemed worthy of hours and money and tears and celestial stubborn love. Stromboli lived, and Stromboli is strong and slaphappy, and now Stromboli is learning about his adoptive family, and pepperoni, and sparrows on the window sill.

Is this not “impact?”

Listen. I will never fault those who measure and count. Tabby’s Place is not the whole place. We do our part. There are other parts. If we could save forty two billion Boobalahs and Strombolis, we would. We applaud those who excel in exponents. We need us all.

There is no us and them, only us.

But as long as there is the one cat, alone and hopeless, we will be the ones who focus on the one.

Let love be the judge of “impact.”

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