Bob is calling.
Bob will keep calling.
Bob is not into texting.
Bob will leave as many voicemails as necessary.
Talking to you is important, so Bob is not impatient. Bob has never had the luxury of impatience.
Did you know impatience is a luxury? Bob will explain, just as soon as he gets the chance to talk to you.
In the meantime, Bob will wait. He has learned that everything worthwhile takes time.
This is why he wears his headset at all times.
It is the old-school kind, with a microphone under his chin. You normally only see this apparatus on motivational speakers, security guards, or truckers who need to ensure they are heard clearly when they say, “maker breaker, this is Uncle Flapjack, ya copy?”
Bob has been wearing his headset so long, it is part of his permanent markings. He first put it on as a kitten, when the world was new, and every call was answered promptly. (Let us all pause to contemplate the splendor of a baby Bob.)
When you first arrive on Earth, the signal is strong, and people answer on the first ring.
But the conversation got convoluted around the time Bob started to wobble. Some neurological novelty — we will not call it a “defect” — gave Bob a few advanced needs. His sight is limited. He is deaf, other than the music he hears inside his headset.
So people stopped taking his calls. Bob ended up in a shelter. But Bob knew it was not the end, so he kept calling.
If you are a cat with a wonky connection, there is one call that will always get through. Tabby’s Place is the “hello?” that can be heard the whole world over. We scan the airwaves for voices in the dark. We pick up for “unknown callers” with weird area codes. Some of our best friends show up as “potential spam.”
To the wrong ears, we are all “potential spam.”
But if you keep calling, you make contact.
The cat born with his own headset may not be able to hold his own head steady. That is irrelevant. You only need a steady head if you are in a hurry, or conducting surgery. Bob does not hurry, and he is no surgeon. He is a motivational speaker.
For most of his life, Bob has been speaking to himself. He told himself he would belong somewhere, someday. He told himself that anything taking so long must be worth the wait.
He told himself to call one more time, and then one more.
The shelter told us that Bob had neurological issues. The shelter did not know that Bob’s emergency contacts are faith, hope, love, and Chef Boyardee.
Now that we’ve picked up Bob’s call, he speaks freely.
Bob is the chief conversationalist of the Lobby. I do not mean that he meows. The most inspiring speeches are rarely verbal.
I mean he snuggles the fat football of his head under your arm. I mean he listens attentively and remembers your name the first time. I mean he wobbles like ambulatory gelatin, or nougat on legs.
OK, he also meows.
But “meow” is not exactly the correct term. The sound of Bob is the music of a pixie piccolo from your favorite fairy tale. It is high pitched, and high-hoped, and highly recommended.
Bob is calling. Bob is calling us to step into greatness.
There’s just one thing about greatness: you can’t be impatient.
If you want to be great, you have to sit on the linoleum so a jiggly cat can plop properly into your lap. You have to extend your arm long enough for the pink nose to boop your fingertips.
You have to say “hello? hello? … hello?” until shy green eyes confirm, “I’m here!”
You have to trust the wait is worth it.
You may have to invest in a headset. Bob would lend you his own, but it’s kind of attached to his head.
Then again, if you answer his call, you’ll find yourself rather attached to Bob, too.