It is not fair.

There must be a way around this.

If I can just find the right address to send my letter, the right department to ship my prototype, we can fix it.

Maybe you can help me. We just need to find the Office of Necessary Inventions, and we’ll set things right.

See, I have a device in mind that will take the batteries out of the Heartache Machine. Here’s how it works: any time a cat comes from a hopeless situation, his kitchen timer gets an instant rewind to kittenhood. If he’s slogged through pain or shivered alone, he is awarded a free, irrevocable pass back to infancy.

He gets a full refund. He gets to start over. He gets an extended, director’s cut, extra-cheese lifespan to apologize for the sighs and sufferings.

I can’t seem to get the thing to work.

If I could, Arthur would be doing well. Our tuxedo knight, the jack of hearts, would have an eon in Camelot, with an alligator-filled moat to keep out age and disease.

Arthur has already had his audience with suffering. He was left behind, lost, and just little enough for the angels to alert us to his existence. He arrived weary, but he walloped us with whimsy. He is astonished at the conspiracy of fishes, the wet food that won’t stop being wonderful every day. He is incurably amazed that he gets to be adored.

He should have a hundred years, or at least twenty, or at least five, to savor it all.

He is the king of Quinn’s Corner, our Adoption Team’s office mate and majesty. He is thrilled even when he must be pilled. He lifts his ancient head to the sun, as vassals and volunteers gavotte him through the garden in a stroller.

He is infatuated with autumn and excited for winter. His bones are tired, but he takes the time to dress like a gentleman every morning. He shows up for breakfast with jokes and “thank-yous.” He shows up for his life. He is too concerned for our feelings to remember his own past. He looks into your eyes, asks about your bad night or your ailing uncle, and waits for you to answer.

Arthur has waited an aeon for this. Arthur should have eight more aeons to enjoy it.

Arthur is too happy to hear his body bellowing. But his eyes, gums, and skin are as yellow as the maple leaves. His gallbladder is obstructed. The “fast-forward” button is depressed.

Arthur is not doing well. Arthur is not depressed.

I hold Arthur and feel the axis of the world turn towards morning. His old heart beats kindergarten songs, and his cloudy eyes shine with compassion. He is the good grandfather who ignores his creaky hip to bounce you until you laugh.

He can’t feel fabulous, not with the foes we know are inside. He can’t not know that he isn’t doing well.

But he’s as stubborn as dawn. If the sun rises, and he’s still here, and we’re still here, and we all get to hold each other and stroll each other and scoop ham baby food into each other’s mouths (be assured that Arthur would return the favor if he could), we walk in wellness. We are whole, with our achy hips and our villainous pancreases and our gob-stopped gallbladders.

Arthur listens patiently as I tell him about my invention. I draw pictures on construction paper. He puts them on his fridge, right next to your baby photo and that volunteer’s secret poem and every artifact of everyone who ever loved him. He appreciates my intention.

He head-bonks me as he rejects the premise.

What starting blocks could compete with a victory lap? Youth has yielded to glory.

Should we take him back to baby days, he would forget that even the saddest sentence has a comma. If we kidnapped him back to kittenhood, he would not know the sound of “but love.”

Arthur’s years knew grief, but love came for him.

Arthur’s life was scary, but love cast out all fear.

Arthur’s time may be short, but love is the ladder from earth to heaven.

Arthur is not clinically doing well. Arthur is doing well. Arthur is not afraid.

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