Glistening filets of salmon do not make him happy.
Dryer-fresh blankets, embroidered with the face of Winnie the Pooh, do not make him happy.
Happiness certainly does not make him happy.
But, googly gumdrops, we are awful happy that Eeyore is here.
If you ask Eeyore, I should have ended that sentence sooner: “we are awful.” Period.
This is not a personal insult. This is just because “we” are part of “reality,” which is contained within “existence,” and all of the above are … awful.
Far be it from us to convince Eeyore otherwise. We have learned better than to tell cats they are incorrect. Cats are correct. Cats are correct at all times. Cats are correct when they call lunchtime at 2:12 am. Cats are correct when they declare themselves Sovereign Emperor of the United Federation of Galaxies and Universes. Cats are correct when they tell us we are cute. Cats are correct when they call us names I cannot print in this blog.
Our proper response to all declarations, by all cats, is, “yes, my liege,” followed by the prompt presentation of seafoods, plural.
So, if Eeyore says everything is awful, we will not insist he start a gratitude journal. We will not chirp, “good vibes only!” We will even force ourselves not to tell him he is cute, since he would only scowl and scold us for saying such an awful thing.
We will meet him in the middle of his muddle and let him play his doldrums loud.
Eeyore’s dirge goes something like this. Other kittens have mothers. Other cats come in orange and tabby or, if they really want to be gaudy about the whole thing, calico.
But Eeyore was not born like other kittens. Eeyore fell from the sky like a meteorite. Thud.
All the other comets said he was a dorky dingus. They made fun of his Walter Matthau eyes, and his rutabaga cheeks, and his taste in music, even though Michael Bolton’s “Time, Love, and Tenderness” is an underrated masterpiece that will someday be ranked with Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. (DO NOT CORRECT EEYORE ON THIS POINT.)
Also, Eeyore is not grey. (Remember I am only quoting Eeyore here.) Eeyore is a color called glump. So is the rest of reality. Blue butterflies, and yellow cheddar shreds, and those exasperating kaleidoscopic calicos are only an optical illusion. Everything is glump, and everything is awful, and yes, that includes the fish filet in your hand.
This is not the time to correct Eeyore.
For, although Eeyore’s story is in some ways “common,” the former feral is as unprecedented as he insists.
We could tell him that many other strays were injured outdoors. We could remind him he is not the first to slog along in stoic agony, every step a painstaking negotiation with his own wrenched legs and pelvis.
We could even pooh-pooh his pessimism. After all, he was the one who limped onto love’s radar. Good people saved him for no “good” reason other than that he was Eeyore, and he exists, and his existence is evidence that there is still good in the universe.
We could say all of those things, but far better that we listen.
For, beneath his bleary eyes and guarded heart, Eeyore hides a storybook no sadness can shut.
He has been waiting all his life to find out if he can be both seen and loved at the same time. It is easy to be seen, even if you are grey. It is easy to be loved, if you are a cheerleader or a calico.
But to have someone cherish you, even if you scowl, even if you insist it will never be your birthday, even if you are glumpy with no intent to de-glump … well, that is the stuff of another universe.
One that might not be so awful.
Far be it from us to tell Eeyore that he has entered an alternate universe. The comets did him a favor. The meteors hurled him to the earthy Eden of oddballs, Tabby’s Place. All those incidents and injuries tumbled him towards today, where there is tuna, and a surgeon to mend his hurts, and people as plentiful as poppyseeds willing to sit by his side in The Sad, as long as it takes.
Time, love, and tenderness will tell Eeyore all he can’t yet believe.
So for now, we will just tell him how he got his name.
There was another Eeyore, grey as glump, in a storybook long ago. He was not a feral cat, but a donkey, dour and dismal. He saw sunburn in every sunbeam and cavities in every drop of honey. Yet, his merry friends were happy he was theirs. The sprightly tiger, and the nurturing kangaroo, and the righteous rabbit, and Winnie the Pooh himself loved Eeyore exactly as he was.
He never changed. And neither did their acceptance.
It is a wonderful story.
Tabby’s Place is non-fiction.
And Eeyore is only on the first page of the book that never, ever ends.
We’re awful grateful to be here, together.