You may read all the books in all the libraries, but there are some stories only your senses can tell.

The sight of five hundred thousand bats in flight.

The sight of a single Bat not in flight.

Adopt the hours of a cat, and you shall be changed. It is no small thing to turn crepuscular, batting your lashes at dawn and dusk.

But be prepared.

What you see on day’s margins will not fit in your diary. Language and syntax will fall on their knees. Even exclamation points will faint, flat on their backs.

In Carlsbad, New Mexico, a half million bats burst forth from a cavern. They beat their wings, jubilant against civil twilight. They beat up cynicism, reminding you that wonder is a civil right.

In Ringoes, New Jersey, a single Batty remains calm. She folds her wings, drawn to the light in your eyes. She folds her paws, reminding you that trust is a form of prayer.

She lets you touch her. She lets herself be loved. She lets it show.

These are the sensations that change your life.

Some may say there is little comparison between these events. One is the Land of Enchantment’s ultimate spectacle. One is a single cat, in a New Jersey backwater, choosing not to run.

If you are reading this blog, you understand.

Batty came by her name for her likeness to a little winged mammal. There is no question that her ears suggest echolocation. You can imagine her in flight.

Actually, we did not need to use our imaginations.

Batty bolted so quickly through Quinn’s Corner, she crossed time zones. She scrambled the alphabet. She summoned invisible stalactites to slow us down. She gathered momentum to fly.

She exasperated everyone who wanted only to love her and/or medicate her, which is a dialect of love.

Batty’s flight broke our hearts, when all we wanted was to hand them over to her.

But there are stories only your senses can tell.

We told Batty that she was safe and spectacular. We presented PowerPoints, inviting Sesame Street‘s Count to read Five Hundred Reasons We’re Bats for Batty.

Batty was unmoved. Or rather, Batty was vigorously moved, so as not to be tangibly loved.

Fortunately, Batty is a cat, which means she owns five hundred senses.

Batty saw the same old faces returning. No matter how consistent her schedule — run, flee, fly — the faces were full of newness, cratered with kindly crinkles around the eyes.

Morning by morning, evening by evening, all these peculiar, persistent people flapped and clapped and behaved as though besotted with one Bat. They came with food, songs, and stubborn sun, even at nightfall.

Even when she ran the length of Saturn’s rings to avoid their meddling and medicating.

Even when she called them “buffoons” to their faces.

Even when she called them “bat guano incarnate” to their faces.

Batty felt that G-force of grit that no physicist can fathom. These people had determined to love her, and the decree was final.

Like dark matter and string theory, unconditional love is little understood. Like bats and cats, unconditional lovers are small enough to shimmy between dawn and dusk, and lasso the light.

Batty tasted squeeze-tuna, a power great enough to speak for itself.

Batty heard her own name, but not in words. Yes, there are stories only your senses can tell.

Meanwhile, we were learning, too.

This is Tabby’s Place, so we could trot out treatises on FeLV. We could pontificate on feline socialization, overstate our powers, and implicate ourselves in the biggest buffoonery of all.

We could think we write the story.

Fortunately, we are humans, which means cats can bring us to our senses.

No one can teach you the power of a feline heinie in ascendance beneath your own hand. Like some seesaw of spine and spirit, or a half-million bats choreographed to Unchained Melody, a cat rises at your touch.

Physicists and theologians call this “doing butt-ups.”

Batty calls it “yes.”

Yes, I have received your love undamaged. I signed for the package.

Yes, I am capable of flight, but I waive the right.

Yes, I will remain here with you, in this hour, between light and light.

Yes, there are no words.

We will keep on reading, buffoons that we are. We read Batty’s body language, the wisdom of experts, and signs in the sky.

But once you have seen a Batty not in flight, you are changed. You come back to your senses. You speak in spirit and touch.

You let the story write surprises from dawn to dusk.

You know Batty will run again. So will you. That is fine.

Once you have landed and felt love bear your weight, neither of you will fly away.

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