Do it. Call me “greedy.”
I’m not daring you. I’m not seeking absolution.
I’m delighting in it.
If I’m greedy enough, that is.
I’m not talking about money. I’m not talking about gelatinous poultry. I’m not even talking about tie-dyed shirts or Cherry Zero, of which the world cannot produce enough.
I’m talking about adoptions.
I’m talking about outrageous adoptions.
I’m talking about adoptions that cynics and scoffers and persons of propriety call “impossible.”
I’m talking about elderly, toothless, insulin-dependent Shifty going home. Shifty doesn’t listen to Dua Lipa. Shifty falls asleep during Wheel of Fortune. Shifty is expensive and extraordinary and a pewter planet of possibility and poetry.
I’m talking about FeLV+ Boba and Espresso going home. Boba doesn’t keep up with current events. Boba is electrical current and manic elegance. Espresso doesn’t sweep the kitchen. Espresso sweeps away the sadness that is “supposed to” freckle the world.
I’m talking about FIV+, ancient, anxious Audrey and FIV+, shy-eyed, stargazing Sky going home. Audrey doesn’t dance like a Rockette. Audrey rolls the earth between her paws and warms it until it is as soft as her heart. Sky doesn’t howl at the moon. Sky counts his lucky stars that he belongs to Audrey, and Audrey belongs to him, and they both belong to love.
I’m talking about FeLV+ Poncey and Andy going home. Poncey does not pitch baseballs with his many toes. Poncey catches the light in kind eyes and sends it forth in infinite rainbows, a feline prism. Andy does not maintain decorum. Andy does not refrain from joy. Andy could personally sustain the world.
I’m talking about FeLV+ Dylan going home. Dylan does not make decisions. Dylan dotes on hours and days with the mirth of a lover. Dylan is incurably infected with glossy, grassy gratitude.
I’m talking about FeLV+ Charles going home. Charles does not save his crayons for important projects. Charles is the important project. Charles is color and comedy and the crashing sound of “impossibles” shattering.
I’m talking about my friends finding their forever friends.
I’m talking about all of this being only the beginning of a radical relentless raid.
I’m greedy. I’m greedy to scout out all the bunkers where grumps cross their arms and grunt “impossible.” I’m greedy to fog their mahogany foyers with love. I’m greedy to swap out their tweed elbow-patch jackets for tie-dyed sweatshirts.
I’m greedy to spill the secret that “impossible” has paper-thin walls. Actually, they are tissue paper, and the world is a gigantic gift bag.
I’m greedy to get the grumps grinning.
I’m greedy to send unadoptable cats through walls like the Kool-Aid man, shouting “OH, YEAH!”
I’m greedy for the miracles of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
Call me “greedy.” I’ll return the favor, if you’re wise and foolish enough to join me. Who knows? Prescott might even engrave our faces on Mt. Fish Mushmore.