If you need a reminder that you are not in control, report to the Kitten Room.

If you need to experience a petite individual scrambling up the length of your body unhindered by gravity, report to the Kitten Room.

If you need to know that everything is going to be OK, report to the Kitten Room.

Things do not go according to plan in the Kitten Room. That would require a “plan,” and kittens are unanimously anti-plan. They are equally opposed to agendas, itineraries, and action items.

But that is only because kittens are composed entirely of action, sprinkled with starlight, chaos, and metaphysical Funfetti.

This is what gives them that heavenly kitten-scent that is not quite baby powder and not at all resistable.

This is also what prevents them from being composed.

If you arrive with expectations, it will not bode well.

Fortunately, Bode will relieve you of that burden. If you need an ecstatic firefly with a shag haircut, you are in the right Kitten Room. If you need a therapist whose life plan is “more life, less plan,” you are in the right Kitten Room.

If you need to lose the next twenty minutes in a tornado of tangerine hairs, instant acceptance, and high-flying honesty, you are definitely in the right Kitten Room.

If you did not know that was what you needed, all the better. Kittens love not knowing things. Not knowing things provides the opportunity to learn things, and also to make them up.

Bode did not know that gravity is a law in all fifty states, which is how she was able to leap the length of two Shaquille O’Neals to land on your shoulder. Bode did not know that Tulio does not exactly like kittens who are not Tulio, which is how she was able to insist that they are friends anyway.

Bode does not know that adopters favor kittens who use their litter boxes. Bode also does not know that adoption is the goal. If you attempt to inform her, she will not understand. Who talks about “ends” in the Kitten Room? This is a laboratory for beginnings. This is a sanctum for fits and starts.

This is the room where you can scream at your friends, excrete creatively, pick fights just to see what happens, and still expect a place in the kitten pile at the end of the day.

This is the room where you can smell a stranger’s sadness and report directly to the nook between their neck and their shoulder, that soft spot where humans try to hide heartaches and all the things they don’t know.

But you can’t hide anything from a kitten.

They may appear to be plush hummingbirds with poor impulse control. They can’t clean up your mess, solve your social dilemmas, or undo that unexpected phone call that just hit you like a dodgeball to the face.

But if some sorrow, or the sum total of sorrow, has sent you staggering into the Kitten Room, things bode well for you.

These tiny geniuses do not need to know you to love you, instantly and completely.

They are here to swarm your lap and show what happens when plans collapse into presence.

They are here to fight, and play, and leap, and collapse, and stare full-soul into your eyes, and exhale such pure optimism that, by the time you leave (which will hopefully be at least an hour later than you planned), you will realize that you are breathing again, all the way down to your belly button, where the laughs live.

If you need to explain why you are breaded in tiny, downy hairs, don’t bother with words.

Just take your pristine-looking friends by the hand. Lead them to the Kitten Room. They need exactly what is on offer.

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