We use so many words, we can’t always hear the music.
Meanwhile, Earth speaks in cats and flowers.
Sometimes, if we are fortunate, even at the same time.
Cats and flowers outnumber people in Tabby’s Place’s rural neighborhood. You can drive all day among the daffodils before you find anyone to argue with. Feral cats chaperone our farmers, and heirloom tomatoes are prized above rubies.
But even here, we can get too busy. We mean well. It is just so exhausting trying to mend the world. We run late, run ragged, and run out of air before love can take our breath away.
Our only chance is that something gentle and true will catch our eye.
Like a dahlia. Or a Dahlia.
In the drowsy browns of late winter, a brown tabby is as quiet as the trees. She is covered in camouflage, with no pop of color blazing into bloom.
But one good man glimpsed hope rustling, close to the soil.
Perhaps the good man, named Peter, had patient eyes from spending his time with flowers.
Growing dahlias and peonies, he learned the language of a beauty that was born to give. Blossoms require no interview before they delight your heart. No one can earn the color magenta. Peter saw the grace inside tiny seeds. He knew how to nurture fragile things into full bloom.
Flowers present their faces to the sun.
So it is no wonder Dahlia presented herself to the dahlia man.
Face to face they stood, the grower of beautiful things and the cat whose loveliness could not shout. On spindly legs, the little tabby stood as tall as she could muster.
It had been a long, hungry winter, and she was as brittle as dry leaves. She weighed less than four pounds, helpless against a strong wind.
But now, she was the apple of the dahlia man’s eye. She chose him, gazing straight into his kindness.
Dahlias are associated with dignity and elegance, and Peter perceived the splendor of the bony brown stray.
He hurried her into warmth, setting her up with her own cozy heater and many bowls of food, in the safest place he could offer: among the dahlia bulbs, tucked away warm and safe for winter.
But the three-pound cat needed more than compassion and calories.
There was no way to guess how long she had persevered outdoors, not giving up until she found someone who would see her. The long search had taken its toll on her tiny body.
She needed the kind of “greenhouse” with electrolytes and intensive care.
She needed the kind of I-won’t-give-up-on-you devotion that can’t be earned.
She needed the cat sanctuary in the sleepy farm town, where mercy never slumbers.
And so, thanks to the dahlia man, she became Dahlia, the Tabby’s Place cat.
In the eyes of the wider world, we are a peculiar patch of wildflowers at Tabby’s Place. Our most urgent action items involve animals shorter than shrubs, who neither repay nor revere our efforts.
Instead of making a name for ourselves, we make little nests out of fleece blankets, or spoon-feed sardines into a trembly tabby mouth.
But when we receive a flower delivery, we move fast.
Dahlia’s most pressing task seemed to be head-bunting and snuggling every face in sight, caressing our cheeks with all her strength. But our vet team knew that time was of the essence.
Though her eyes shone with abundance, Dahlia was in desperate condition. The next few hours would be critical.
An emergency hospital may not look like it has much in common with a flower farm. But between the beeping machines and the soft voices of the veterinary technicians, you can hear the same music.
It is Earth’s good promise to all who love: beauty starts small, in a seed or a stray. Life is stronger than death.
And, with sunlight, water, and unconditional love, dahlias and Dahlias can flourish.
Soon, the feral-born flower was back at Tabby’s Place, delighting in flotillas of food, unceasing affection, and visits from Peter.
Dahlia then moved to the gentlest garden yet: a devoted foster home with Earth-angel Jae. Within a week, the cat who’d seemed to be down to her last petals was plumping up before our very eyes.
There was not a dry eye at Tabby’s Place when Dahlia broke four pounds.
And the best is yet to come.
Someday, Dahlia will forget the dry and weary winter days. She will have squishy rolls around her belly, and chubby chrysanthemum cheeks that make her eyes crinkle when she smiles.
Her rosy toes will not remember the feel of frozen ground, and her ears will tingle at the sound of her own nicknames rather than the wail of the wind.
But Dahlia will never forget the dahlia man.
We will never forget the music.
In the event we do, we will turn, again, to the flowers and the cats.
They will never give up on us.
The least we can do is return the favor.