Do not adjust your screen.
You are not seeing things.
There is, in fact, a bear living at Tabby’s Place. Meet Ursula.
She is far too graceful to be a grizzly. She is made of steel and dignity, not the fluffy stuffing of a teddy bear. She does not manage a restaurant like a certain other Bear, although “Yes, Chef” is the correct response to everything she says.
She has a lot to say.
She is the sky-bear made of stars, and she has landed at Tabby’s Place.
Do not be deceived by your eyes. Yes, Ursula appears to be a grey tabby of normal dimensions. Her eyes are as green as the clover under your feet, and her stripes follow the usual rules of earthly genetics. NASA’s bells and whistles did not go wild when she arrived. Not even Fox Mulder would have seen this one coming.
But I am telling you the truth. If you have ever looked up at the constellation Ursa Major, “the big bear,” you have seen Ursula before.
How else can we explain the light that shoots in all directions from Suite B?
Since the day Ursula appeared, Tabby’s Place has boasted the highest concentration of splendor in the solar system. I am telling you. They can measure this stuff.
Or rather, they could, but the minute they meet Ursula, they forget astronomy, their agenda, and their own names. They fall on their knees before a star-cluster disguised as a cat.
And then, they give her cookies. “Yes, Chef.”
If there is one thing Ursula loves on this Earth, it is Ursula. But if there are two, they are Ursula and cookies. Fortunately, Ursula is made of stars, so her ability to love is infinite.
And the thing Ursula loves third-best is you and me.
It might have been otherwise. 
As the story goes, Ursula was exiled from her place in the sky without so much as an explanation. The details are as fuzzy as those nebulas that look like Muppet hair. But there was a loss, a harsh landlord, and a fall to Earth.
You can’t cram a constellation into a closet, and you can’t stuff a star-cluster under the sofa.
There was only one place big enough for the Big Bear.
We’re used to having stars in our eyes at Tabby’s Place.
“Yes, Chef.”
So the silver cat made of golden suns came. A crash course in cosmology would be required.
You cannot blame Ursula for her early crankiness. We treated her like a cat. That means we lavished her with gushy love and uninterrupted reverence, but that is scarcely an appetizer for a bear.
Ursula needed the whole sky.
Ursula needed to know that there was no way she could fall from grace, not here.
Ursula needed to hiss and mutter and wait to see if everything would go dark.
We may have been too dim to recognize that Ursula is a bear, but we do know a thing or two about light.
We know a thing or two about cats who come in like curmudgeons, bubble-wrapping their hearts so they don’t get broken in transit. The big bear was not angry; we were just unproven.
The little cat was not grouchy, just grieving.
We know a thing or two about courage that mews. There are cats who stare into the darkness until it blinks first. Ursula would not go dim with despair. She would shine like the first stars to greet the dawn.
Bearish grunts turned to celestial mews.
Ursula started to see what she still believed. There is a love which moves the sun and other stars. There is a light the darkness cannot comprehend.
There are people who will sit with you in your fog, keeping vigil no matter how you growl. There is a Place where tabbies cannot lose their place in the sky.
There are also cookies shaped like stars and flavored like salmon. This is a welcome bonus. “Yes, Chef.”
Ursula can accept that most eyes will never detect her true identity. It is hard to fit a whirlwind of incandescent atoms into a carrier. It’s probably for the best that we let people believe Ursula is a cat.
But you and I know the truth.
The Big Bear has come from the sky to a little outpost of heaven.
The best is yet to come.