If you believe you are homely, you will be lonely.
But if you believe you are home, you will be lovely.
Take it from two tabbies.
Roberta and Baby are equally magnificent. Their magnificence quotient is quantum. All the physicists, theologians, and macaroni-makers combined could not contain these cats in calculations or hymns.
They are, after all, brown tabbies.
And they are not just any brown tabbies, although the meekest cat contains more glory per atom than Mick Jagger. These are titans among tabbies, paragons of all who purr.
Baby has retained his unwavering innocence into extreme old age. His body type is “bulbous,” and his family crest is a bulb, since he was placed on this Earth to give light.
He would not bite you if his life depended on it. He will melt into maple pudding in your arms as though his entire life led up to you.
Roberta, meanwhile, is softness with a soul. Her eyes are lily pads, where worried creatures can find rest.
Every oaky swirl and whirl has been hand-painted by an artist who stepped back, smiled, and said, “this one is very good.” The sun shrieks like a Swiftie every time Roberta steps into the solarium.
They have both reached the age when adopters are as scarce as life-sized liverwurst sculptures of Liam Neeson.
They both have inscrutable litter box habits, which is not usually what people write in the “what are you looking for in a cat?” section of the adoption application.
Baby has diabetes. Roberta has reservations about people, humans, and related life forms (e.g., Hobbits, elves, senators).
Baby and Roberta may or not become “lifers” at Tabby’s Place. This is not a problem. This is a pleasure. They are both at home, and fear does not own a key.
The only difference between them is what they see.
Roberta does not (yet) see her own beauty. This has nothing to do with the fact that she is blind. As Polly taught us, physical sight is not necessary for vision.
Roberta’s senses are on alert. We don’t blame her. She survived a decade with neither a roof nor a name over her head. She is still getting used to not having callouses on her toes.
Surely, all this sunshine has a shelf life. Surely, a shy, blind former feral will exhaust love’s patience.
But every hour at Tabby’s Place is evidence against fear.
Roberta is beloved and beautiful. She does not need to be a lap cat, a fireball, or anything but the lion-hearted lamb she is.
She just needs time to believe what she “sees.”
There is no rushing this revelation, only the quiet work of reassurance. We will speak in fluent patience and vernacular breakfast. We will settle her in the sacred sameness of ordinary days. We will be her home until she feels at home.
And we will tell her about her fellow tabby just down the hall.
Perhaps Baby is so buoyant because he has been a baby all his days. Unlike Roberta, our beaming beach ball has felt the warm sand of “home” since kittenhood.
He was loved by good people before Tabby’s Place. He assumed “good” and “people” are synonyms in every place. And, despite the march of age and medical issues, Baby has remained summery and silly.
Silliness is another underrated miracle.
You can’t feel at home without it.
And Roberta’s feelings are catching up with her address.
Although Roberta is always beautiful, she is at her most glorious when joy wraps her in its arms.
It usually happens in the solarium, when the morning sings its song or the golden hour takes its long curtsy.
You will see a sense of safety spread over Roberta’s face. Her whiskers will shimmer, her eyes will close, and she will claim her place in the world.
She is at Tabby’s Place, and when you are home, you are always lovely.