Today is Labor Day.
You might not think that would mean much to a species who sleeps 18 hours a day and assumes a salary of poultry and homage.
But Labor Day means everything to cats.
This is a scientific fact.
Atari earns overtime for quality-testing both the bed shaped like a pineapple and the bed shaped like a coconut. (When you love what you do, you will never work a day in your life.)
Berry receives bonus kisses for devoting his evenings and weekends to the demolition of cardboard boxes. (When you are called to a great and noble vocation, you are willing to make personal sacrifices.)
Hannah is in line for a promotion for his leadership in rolling and rollicking like an electrified, caffeinated mozzarella stick of mirth. (He is in talks with Harvard Business School to offer a symposium on this, but they can’t afford him.)
Taco will get a stipend for being a purring palindrome. (Tacocat spelled backwards is Tacocat. The least we can do is set up a direct deposit of taco into cat.)
Kiki deserves paid time off for managing both the cardboard scratcher shaped like a post office and the cardboard scratcher shaped like an ice cream truck. (Her work ethic humbles us all.)
And, for his service to humanity, Trifecta‘s salary should be thirteen trillion cheeseburgers.
He is our CEO (Comforter Encourager Optimist). He is love’s ambassador at nursing homes, cancer support groups, and, most recently, a conference to end domestic violence.
He is love’s favorite.
But he insists he is a volunteer.
(Francois will selflessly adopt the cheeseburgers, but only if we use the French word for cheeseburger, which is cheeseburger. Never mind. Francois will embrace them no matter what we call them.)
As a matter of fact, they are all volunteers.
When Shelly shellacs your lap with her full Shellitude, she has no intention of earning anything. She is just one warm miracle melting into another.
Cancel your agenda items. Turn off the notifications. Be here together. Breathe in — I am holding Shelly — and breathe out — Shelly is holding me. The blind cat sees life’s work.
When Betty beholds you, she gives no thought to what she can get. No productivity expert or time management guru taught her to sprint like a kitten in your direction.
Her key performance indicators are not efficiency or head bonks per hour. She is not conducting a cost-benefit analysis of energy expenditure vs. squeeze-tuna probability.
She is simply aware that there are a thousand possible universes in which she might not be here, and you might not be here, and only one in which you can cuddle cheek-to-cheek, and you have found each other.
When Hazey bites you like a Funyun, she has no fear of a performance improvement plan, a strongly worded letter in her file, or any pay cut in your love.
She is built like a Bundt cake and assumes your love is sturdy. She cannot lose what she could not earn. She is a Tabby’s Place cat, and her worth is written in her DNA, not her deeds. When she meditates about this, she gets so excited she may have to bite you again. Or shnoogle you with the tenderness of ten thousand caramels. She hasn’t decided yet.
Because you are going to love her, no matter what she does or doesn’t do.
The work of a cat is to simply be loved.
They were made for the job.
We are not quite so proficient at letting ourselves be loved. It can feel downright labor-intensive.
Which brings us to the volunteers who take care of the feline volunteers.
The hardest working humans I know are paid in presence. They shovel litter like they are building a cathedral. They dollop giblets into tiny paper boats like they are choreographing the Royal Family’s flotilla.
They contort themselves like soft pretzels to blink into a kitten’s quivering eyes. They leave with nothing but unidentified stains on their sweatshirts and a fine layer of fur on their behinds that makes people in the supermarket snicker.
Oh, and also the secret to being fully alive.
Love is their boss.
(So is Olive. But that goes without saying.)
They are often heartbroken, sometimes exhausted, and deliriously happy.
And, as you read these words, they are using their rare and precious vacation day to wave wand toys for Uni, keep Braveheart company in the solarium, mop up festive fluids, fill bowls, and mend the world.
Happy Labor Day to love’s fearless work force.