Beloved Betty, who told you it was Valentine’s Day?
They told you this on August 11th, and October 25th, and December 2nd, and so on.
You believed them every time.
I am beginning to believe you were absolutely right.
Betty, we are not in the business of telling cats certain things.
We know better than to tell you what to do. Someone did that, once, back in prehistoric times, and the cats laughed so hard, that was how the seven continents split apart.
We are also not going to tell you that “everything happens for a reason.” That never comforted any human being, much less a cat.
But cats are better than we are at living without “reasons.” Instead, you live one Valentine’s Day after another.
And Betty, when it comes to Valentines, you are the best.
You left us when you were a candy-striped kitten, all confectioner’s sugar and swagger. You spent many Valentine’s Days in a home, until the day it was no longer your home.
Yet I have never seen you fumble for “reasons.” We humans are the ones with hands shaped like the claw in the toy machine. We keep putting quarters in and watching the stuffed animal drop.
But Betty, you just landed softly in your window box at Tabby’s Place, and you did not ask for explanations. You are a beating heart and an artist’s original. You walk in peace.
We are not inclined to tell you when the news is “bad.” Betty, when I heard your lymphoma diagnosis many months ago, I flew to your window box. I called you “beloved,” which is the only better name than “Betty.”
“Beloved” falls out my lips like a proper name when I am near you. I lay my spindly hands on your warm white fur, as though I were a healer. But we both know that is your skill, not mine. You have been healing haggard people, which is to say all of us, since you returned.
I never say the word “lymphoma” in your room, although you would not be afraid, because it is Valentine’s Day.
Betty, someone must have told you it was Valentine’s Day, because this is not common knowledge.
I have watched you greet the clouds in the same spirit as the sun. You bare your belly and look as though you are smiling. You are one slim white cat with grey garland, but you wriggle until you turn into a container for life. You catch it all, the gaudy sunbeams and the grouchy fog, as though it is all so many love letters.
Nobody told you that your roommates are egos with hair.
Far be it from you to judge Gator for his history of violence, or Uni for her unrequited love of running into the hallway. I have seen your amber gaze transfigure them. In your eyes, they are unrepeatable, inimitable, adorable. They are nonpareils and truffles, Muppets and Care Bears. They are chocolate hearts and yellow roses. They instigate each other, but they grant you space. They have their reasons, but again, you are unconcerned with that.
Betty, beloved, you keep telling me that it is Valentine’s Day, every day that we get to call “today.”
You play as though you are still small enough to fit in the crook of life’s neck, a cuddle puddle no larger than a vanilla cupcake. You throw the mice, jingle the bells, and rollick right up to the edge of “rambunctious,” only to stop on a dime and decide you are a lady in pearls.
You make me laugh out loud until there is no more lymphoma. You look over your shoulder as though you are making sure love is still there. But I know you know. You know your name.
Beloved Betty, is it possible that no one told you it was Valentine’s Day?
Could it be that you discovered it for yourself, a diamond mine right in the middle of days and weeks? You have been returned, and diagnosed, and adored unconditionally.
Everything may or may not happen for a reason, but love keeps happening. It cannot be anything other than a holiday. I will try to keep remembering. I will keep my date with you, here in the window seat, here where every sky we share is good weather.
Happy Valentine’s Day, beloved Betty. May we have many more together.