He’s not New York. He’s not Paris, Tokyo, or Milan.

He’s not even Secaucus.

He’s Cleveland, and he’s the heartland of Tabby’s Place.

At the geographic center of our sanctuary, where rivers of sorrow empty into Great Lakes of gladness, you will find a cat who was not supposed to “make it.”

This is one of those expressions that bubble-wraps reality. “Make it.” It is easier to form these words than to say the stark one: “survive.” It suggests a cat forming his own future from clay, building a cottage where everyone expected a grave.

When he came to us, Cleveland did not have the jazz and sizzle of a city. He did not even have the humdrum patter of a suburb. If there was a spark of life in the cat, it was as faint as a bare bulb in a tiny farmhouse, miles from the nearest neighbor.

But he was about to get neighbor-ed for life.

Cleveland could not supply the materials for his own “making it.” All he had to offer was his kind eyes, not too weary to smile. He had a rumpled backpack of burdens, dumped out like a rock collection.

There was an old foot wound, painful and neglected. Ringworm, which is neither life-threatening nor a worm. Lungworm, which is both. And at the bottom of the backpack, the boulder that will cut your fingers right through the bubble wrap: feline infectious peritonitis (FIP).

Naturally, we had to name this cat for a city.

But it would have to be a particular place: not snap and snark, but Midwest nice. Not fast fashion, but slow blinks. Not Los Angeles or London, but Cleveland.

Even though he was failing to “make it,” right before our eyes, Cleveland’s gaze was full of grace. A cat in his condition should have hissed like an open manhole cover. Instead, he purred as though his future was still open. He wriggled like a cinnamon roll. He asked if he could be Neighborhood President.

He smiled — I am telling you, he smiled — as though he had total confidence we could make it all better. He was dying, but he smiled.

They say that if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere. That’s all well and good for Broadway sensations and business magnates. But when you can’t make it anywhere, no matter how hard you try, you can make it at Tabby’s Place.

When you can’t make it on your own, this neighborhood will make itself your home.

Not long ago, FIP made a mockery of every attempt to “make it.” There was no treatment, no cure, no Great Lake to swallow all the tears.

But rivers of research have crisscrossed the landscape. The audacious, outrageous hope is no longer too good to be true.

Big dreams bring singers and poets to cities, but the biggest dreams always save someone smaller than oneself.

Today, the whole neighborhood is wide awake. Living right at the center, in the heartland, is a cat who never doubted that he would “make it.”

Once, his skin was pink and angry, his breaths beset by invaders; today he is soft as a pretzel and usually found rolling like one in order to solicit kisses. Once, his body was hostile territory; today it is a city at peace. Once, he needed an appetite stimulant; today Cleveland cleans his plate and then proceeds to eat the entire bottom of it. He is electrified and exuberant, robust and rocking.

Once he belonged to no one; today he is the heart of the neighborhood. The map may say New Jersey, but at Tabby’s Place, every compass points to Cleveland.

Breaking news: Cleveland has left our zip code for the city of Forever Home!

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