They could have died. They would have died.
They are currently pursuing their favorite hobby, Not Dying.
You might say the holidays came early for the merry gentlemen.
When I told Juel, Baby Yoda, and Salami that the carol refers to “merry gentlemen,” they looked at me as though I had condemned them to eggless omelets.
They are wise men.
They are stuntmen.
But they cannot tell you, with a straight face, that they are “gentlemen.”
Juel is the juggernaut who gives gravity the day off. His stripes are individual shenanigans. His favorite color is Dorito orange. His favorite person is you, regardless of whether or not you have met. His birth certificate lists his age as only “elf.”
Baby Yoda still can’t quite believe he was born. He abides in astonishment. He has not yet encountered an entity that is not a miracle. If he drove a car, it would be an apricot VW bug, and the bumper sticker would read, Bee Wildered.
Salami has a master’s degree in making the most and the meatiest of life. He was the first of summer’s colony cats to confirm that hugs are good for one’s health. He is leggy, loopy, and pursuing doctoral studies on the neglected topic of sandwiches.
Robin Hood could not dream of more magnificent merry men.
But instead of robbing the rich to give to the poor, they robbed death to give to life.
There’s no time to be a polite gentleman when you are storming the gates of “goodbye.”
If I were writing this in 2019, it would be a three part “Forever Loved.” Juel, Baby Yoda, and Salami’s unbidden “gift” this year was a diagnosis of feline infectious peritonitis, or FIP.
This was once the diagnosis that erased the holidays.
These were the three letters that vets could barely choke out.
Those were different times. But in 2024, the holidays came early.
Courtesy of our species’ showdown with COVID, coronavirus research has been resplendent. Shining scientists have rattled the prison bars of FIP, and antivirals have made the whole horrid thing come tumbling down.
While this miracle was unfolding, CNN and Fox were too busy talking about people who can’t stop talking. But be assured: all the saints and angels leaned in.
The disease had been defeated. The cats would live.
The merry men would make it, and no one is going to make them act “gentlemanly” about it.
As miracles go, FIP treatment is among the more expensive. The protocol is meticulous, involving numerous pills and tightly scheduled periods of fasting every day. The antivirals cost somewhere between two hundred Barbies and the mythical Lamborghini with the bow on it in your driveway.
Tabby’s Place, being Tabby’s Place, does not count the cost.
How do you measure the light in Juel’s eyes when he sees you? What is the sum total of Baby Yoda’s astonishment? Where does Salami’s sweetness fit into a spreadsheet?
You, being you, prevent us from asking such absurd questions. It was your donations that delivered our merry men from certain death.
They could have died, but instead, they are drying our eyes.
You don’t need me to remind you that this is an emotional time of year, especially for the kind of empaths and light-bearers who constellate around Tabby’s Place. When we are in our feelings, it is a good thing we have our merry men.
When “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” gut-punches you with the line, “through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow,” it is a good thing to have Juel curled up to your belly.
The fates, it turns out, do not get the final vote.
Love does.
The merry is at full strength around here.
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, will you?