There are cats who know they are God’s gift to humanity.

There are cats who are content knowing they are God’s gift to themselves.

And then there are cats who live out of a profound responsibility to delight.

As you know, 99.9% of cats fall into the first two categories. A cat is an ego swimming in a sea of id, and we wouldn’t have them any other way.

But you also know the outliers, the cats who somehow came to be infected with human-like sensitivities, insecurities, angst and agita. These are the cats who make well-meaning people say, “He’s like a dog!”

But he is not like a dog, or a wombat, or a Starbucks pink drink, or any number of pleasing things. He is like a cat, a wondrous cat, with a vocation. He is a cat with a serious case of calling…to delight.

And if he doesn’t delight you, he will double down on his efforts until delight is achieved. You will be delighted, kicking and screaming if necessary. Such is the tenacity of a cat with a calling.

Such is the story of Bronn.

Orange and exuberant, Bronn needs no extra pyrotechnics to bring joy. Just to look upon his perfect tangerine face is to rejoice, and once you notice those little nose-freckles, you’re half-dissolved in fizzy glee. But speak to the boy, approach him, and it’s all over but the clean-up crew coming in to mop up your liquefied heart. Bronn is a love machine, bouncy like a spring and bound to be the mainspring of your smile for the rest of the day.

It all comes quite naturally to our good red man, this business of delighting. But Bronn missed the memo about his own miraculousness.

There’s no way around it; this is a cat who tries really, really, really hard. It only makes him more mushworthy; there’s nothing desperate about his desperation; but you can’t help but wish he could see he’s perfectly lovable and loved even when he’s ignoring us (which he does precisely 0% of the time). It would be enough — so very enough — for Bronn to just be, but the boy is always, always, always “on.”

Maybe it’s a side effect of being named for a Game of Thrones character (and, I’m told, a good and noble one). Bronn was bestowed with his epic name before the beloved series came to an end, so no one knew yet whether or not his namesake would (a) live, (b) inherit a giant chair made of swords, or (c) be slain by a dragon/blue-eyed ice man/insert your favorite wonderbeast here.

Bronn knows that love is life, and he’s not taking any chances when it comes to surviving. He will make sure you know he loves you; he will leave you glad all over; and, if he tries really really really hard, he trusts he will feel loved and glad too.

That part is our job.

“Making Bronn feel loved” is a calling I’ll accept with solemn delight (see me bounce on down the hall with utmost solemnity). “Getting Bronn adopted” is a challenge that would seem kindergarten-level. But “finding adopters who are cool with mysterious liver issues” becomes a bit complicated. As of this post, we’re still getting to the bottom of Bronn’s bile-y business.

And so the search, and the saga, and the serious vocation to delight, all dance on.

Until Bronn’s beloveds appear, we’ll take all of this with the utmost seriousness. By which, of course, I mean “mush Bronn into a tangerine marshmallow of belovedness and let him do the same to us.”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m called to bound down the hall to one good red man.

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