There are so many things I wish we could tell people who are “not cat people.”

I wish we could tell them that, when you and a cat bump your foreheads together, everything in the whole world is okay.

I wish we could tell them that tabby stripes are lifelines.

I wish we could tell them that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you cannot tell a cat.

But there are things you can only learn by living. This is true for cat people, “not cat people,” and cats themselves.

Words could not convince Sorrel that she was safe. Heaven knows, we tried. If “I love yous” were seeds, Sorrel would own an orchard.

But the “I love yous” that land always have legs. At Tabby’s Place, “I love yous” tend to end up cross-legged on the floor.

It may look like linoleum. But the Tabby’s Place floor is fertile ground for trust. You cannot command a cat to receive your love. You cannot order her out of her cubby. You can only keep her company until the evidence is overwhelming that she is not alone in this world.

And you can keep talking.

You can, and you should, even if the little black-and-white cat looks as concerned as the heroine of a silent movie.

You can tell Sorrel that she was last summer’s sweetest surprise. Tabby’s Place was up to our earlobes in goofballs and goobers, rescuing over fifty cats from a single, unprecedented colony. Then, one solemn little mama stepped in to share the work.

Sorrel was not in the market for a babysitter. Every mother cat loves her kittens, but Sorrel loved with the gusto of generations. Her wary eyes reassured us: you go ahead and take care of all those rapscallions and rutabagas. These three are mine.

You can tell Sorrel that everyone is pretty sure Nirvana fathered her kittens, as well as all the kittens in the nearest three zip codes. You can’t expect Sorrel to dignify that statement with a response.

You can tell Sorrel that two out of three of her kittens are thriving and raising a rumpus in forever homes. You can tell her that baby Dill is in a different sort of home, in a different sort of forever. You can tell her, but somehow I think she knows.

You can tell Sorrel about your recurring dream where Richard Nixon is playing the accordion on your front lawn, and she will not judge you.

You can tell Sorrel that sometimes you are as afraid as she is, and you wish you had someone to call you “my little rutabaga,” and she will not judge you.

You can tell Sorrel you are in Suite A hiding from your boss, your to-do list, or the IRS, and she will not judge you.

You can tell Sorrel that you will not love her any less if you never bump forehead-to-forehead. She will respond by making assertive “biscuits” into her blanket, while gazing directly at your soul. A lesser creature would need sunglasses, but Sorrel is not afraid of your light.

You can tell Sorrel that she was sent here for a reason, and it was not just her own survival. She is Juel‘s gentlest friend. She is Dawn‘s early appreciator. She is calm in the chaos, for cats of any and no stripes.

She came from the colony to plant peace for many beings.

You can tell Sorrel you love her, and you should. Often.

And someday, from a soft sofa, all downy with her own hair, Sorrel will tell her future family how she came to know more than words can say.

No one can tell a seed to hurtle through the husk and grow.

No one can tell fear to stretch its legs into love’s full height.

But anyone, feline or otherwise, can be changed, before you even squeak out a “wow.”

When the time is right, it will happen.

There is hope, even for the “not cat people.” But don’t tell them Sorrel and I told you.

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