Someone recently described one of my best friends as “arrogant.”
I can’t tell you if the accused was human or feline, and I can’t tell if it was an insult.
But Charles can turn everything to a compliment, so he assisted me as OI (Orange Intelligence) on this post.
Charles lives in Suite G, where cats the size of Buicks commit random acts of Sumo.
Charles, Oram, and Tucker wrestle as though their next snack depends on it. They wrestle as though everybody is watching, because they hope we are.
They wrestle because they are infected with feline leukemia virus (FeLV), but they did not get the memo that they should be sad.
They wrestle because they love each other like brothers.
When humans describe Suite G as “the frat room,” Charles beams. He turns a brighter shade of orange. Charles knows that “frat” may mean “fraternity,” or it may mean “fratelli.”
Fraternity brothers are known for a high per capita rate of shenanigans. Fratelli are known for selling cheese and pepperoni on magic dough carpets.
Do you have any idea how many honorable pizza establishments include the word “fratelli” in their title?
Charles knows.
Charles has a giant soul, with no room for self-centeredness. King Charles scans the realm for insults in need of adjustment.
For instance, when he overheard Alessia described as “aggressive,” he insisted that she is “assertive.” He thought about it some more, and recanted. Alessia is indeed “aggressive.” This is not an insult.
“Aggressive” was Alessia’s escape hatch from depression. “Aggressive” was Alessia’s edge when this riotous world spun too fast. “Aggressive” enabled Alessia to sashay into the unknown, knowing she could handle it.
“Aggressive” is only one atom of Alessia, but it is part of her overall excessive excellence.
If Lin-Manuel Miranda should someday pen a biographical musical about Alessia, he should title it “Assertive. Aggressive. Alessia.” (Lin-Manuel Miranda has Charles on speed dial. When not supervising Tabby’s Place, Charles advises Tony Award winners, Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Shaq.)
“Aggressive” did not prevent Alessia from acquiring a new adjective: “Adopted.” (Technically, pre-adopted. It’s all over but the home-going.)
When I confided in Charles that someone called one of my best friends “arrogant,” he assumed I meant him. I can neither confirm nor deny that this is the case, but I can tell you what he said.
First, Charles asked me to thank that person. Charles has been acquiring arrogance since he was a mere cheese curl of a kitten. Charles fancies himself the largest in the room.
Indeed, he thinks he is better than everyone else.
At this point, Charles gallops into the solarium to retrieve the Chexicon, his personal dictionary.
In Charles’ definition, “arrogant” means “thinking that both you and everyone else are better than everyone else.” Charles is not concerned with the arithmetic.
Charles is confident that everyone can be better than everyone else, together.
That is what he and his fratelli are doing, you know. They are congratulating each other. Their love language is “hand to hand combat.”
Charles says arrogance is for everyone. Charles says arrogance becomes elegance when everyone believes in everyone.
Charles insists that, if you really believe in yourself, you end up believing in all the other selves.
Charles says that confident cats are always generous cats. It is only the shriveled soul that slanders others. Charles will work on those folks, too. They are just scared. They just need unconditional love, a good playlist, and possibly some Chex Mix.
Charles reminds me that he and his fratelli are infected with feline leukemia virus, FeLV. It is good for their health to hold themselves in high regard.
Virulent self-confidence is medicine. Arrogance is more effective than acupuncture, although slightly less effective than provolone. I promise Charles that I will look into this.
Meanwhile, Charles is stapling new chapters into the Chexicon. When it comes to feline diseases, we assumed FeLV was a full bowl of alphabet soup.
Then Charles contracted feline infectious peritonitis, or FIP.
The entire world contracted. Our hearts contracted very, very fast. The future contracted.
If you have heard of FIP, you understand.
Of all the thieves that can claim a cat, FIP was the most brazen. It was fatal, one hundred percent of the time. It was a terrible way to go.
You might say it was arrogant.
You might notice I am speaking in the past tense.
As giant souls know, there is good in every tragedy, an emerald ring in the Cracker Jack box. There is a hymn under every dirge. There is resurrection rippling every wasteland.
And so, the insults of the COVID pandemic came with compliments.
There were stowaway miracles in unprecedented times.
FIP is a form of coronavirus.
FIP research galloped alongside the search for COVID cures.
FIP responds to antivirals.
FIP did not respond to requests for comment on this article.
If this were 2018, I would be writing Charles’s “Forever Loved.” But this is 2024.
The Linda Fund enabled us to take Charles to the emergency vet, who broke Charles’s fever like a pretzel rod and began The Protocol.
The Protocol is an antiviral odyssey of eighty-four days.
The Protocol is arrogant enough to boop the word “fatal” on its nose.
The Protocol is the persistence of hope.
If The Protocol were a cape, it would be orange.
If The Protocol were a cat, it would be Charles, the OI with FeLV.
Thanks to The Protocol, we are fighting for Charles’s life as you read these words.
I wish I could comfort us all with guaranteed victory. Being small and mortal, I cannot.
Charles responded well to The Protocol, only to begin losing weight. Then, an exam revealed a worrisome abdominal mass. Only an ultrasound will tell if we are dealing with something manageable, or lymphoma (which, in Charles’s state, we would not treat aggressively).
But I can tell you this.
Charles loves life. Life loves Charles. And they’re going to stick together, every day they get, with elegance and arrogance.
Charles believes in his future, and yours.
Charles believes that you and he and everyone are better than everyone. Charles does not concern himself with how any of this works. Charles hopes he will someday get to work at Tre Fratelli with Oram and Tucker.
Charles is growing more gigantic by the hour.
We are praying that the hours will be many. We will work together to make every hour sweet.
In the face of FeLV, FIP, and diagnoses unknown, the only answer is arrogant, bright-orange love.