In springtime, kittens are as bountiful as buttercups.
But no little bud thinks of itself as “just another flower,” and Slim did not see himself as one among many.
As best he could tell, he was the last kitten in the world.
When you are small and hurt, being singular does not feel special. Slim would have given all his stripes to be surrounded by other brown tabbies. They are the most common of kittens. They would have huddled together like little cinnamon bears, strong enough for one great roar if they all mewed at once.
But Slim was the last cookie in the box, and his solitude was far from sweet. So much had happened, so fast, that he could hardly remember his own story. His mother was there, warm as a giant purring prayer. But then she was not. The shivers came quick. And then there was the ouch.
Slim did not know quite what happened to his tail. When you are the last kitten of all, there are no playful tails swishing yours, entwining like feline friendship bracelets. You only know that yours is a tabby tendril, more delicate than a new fern. This was the only tail Slim had ever had, and now it had the ouch, the big ouch, the ouch that never happened to another kitten in quite the same way before.
Were there other kittens? They were slipping from Slim’s memory like blossoms in a blizzard. Besides, he could not think about that now. If he was the last kitten on Earth, he would have to carry on for all of them. He would not cry. He would not try to picture the face of that doting, doughy mother who made everything soft and good.
He would just lay down for a little while. Maybe the big ouch would stop chasing him if he closed his eyes…
…but, no. The bitter cold came cackling when Slim stopped moving. He would have to carry himself in his own tiny backpack of bravery, even though his own tail gnawed him with every step.
Perhaps it is best that Slim did not know “Kitten Season” is crowded. Wave upon wave of newborns jostle for a place in the garden of life. It is hard enough to find a haven if you are as cheery as a daisy or plump as a chrysanthemum.
Throw in an orphan’s anxiety and the big ouch, and garden gates swing shut. A bruised blossom just needs too much. There are too many others to tend to. Resources are thin as thistle stems, so a hurt kitten’s odds grow slim. After all, it’s not as though he is the only kitten in the world.
Unless there is a world within the world.
Tabby’s Place has geographic coordinates, no less than any warehouse or factory. You can plot our latitude and longitude. But the plot line wanders once you step inside our door. We have saved 5,000 cats, but we are bad at math. As best we can tell, each one is the first, best, most important cat in the world.
Including one plain brown orphan with a solemn expression and a suffering tail.
If most kittens are dahlias and dandelions, Slim was a forget-me-not. Somber as a wake, he had none of the usual kitteny comedy wiggling his whiskers. His mouth formed a tiny inverted V, like those stuffed animals sewn to always look sad.
But despair is an endangered species at Tabby’s Place, and pain is as fragile as a springtime cold snap. It is hard to be happy when you are the only kitten in the world. It is hard to stay unhappy when you are the most important kitten in the world.
It is hard to make sense of this, when you are as small and hurt as Slim.
There were hands, so many but so gentle, touching him with the reverence reserved for relics and four-leaf clovers. There was a tiny toothbrush stroking his spots, and fleece blankies warmer than anything Slim could remember. Then there were the eats.
Oh, the eats.
There was smushy mush and glistening giblets. There was kibble and starry treats and seafood, all of it free food, although someone must have paid for it, somewhere. Who endowed all the eats? Slim peeked up when he thought no one was peeking back.
Was it the people with the kind hands, or maybe the people who peeled the blankies off the surface of the sun to deliver them all toasty and hopeful?
Was it the woman in the white coat, the one who made the big ouch go away? Was it the ones they called “volunteers,” a whole teddy bears’ picnic of smiling, comforting, singing strangers who all seemed somehow familiar?
Slim was starting to remember.
No kitten ever really forgets that he was placed on this Earth to be cherished.
One kitten is unfolding like the story that blooms every spring, but is the very first time every time.
You Cherished the Kittens last year, so Slim could beat the odds today.
You shrank the wide, wild world to the size of one kitten, so he would have the chance to grow up.
And now we are asking you back to the garden, to give for the one who is most in need. Your donation will be doubled, and your sun will rise on the smallest blossom. We do not yet know his name. We tremble at the thought of his big ouch. We will meet him in the hour when he feels like the last kitten on Earth.
Will you be here?
Thank you for Cherishing the Kittens, dear ones. Thank you for cherishing them one by one by one.
