It is not always in our power to roll along merrily.
But it is always possible to roll along Merrilly.
No cat — certainly not a tuxedo — would tell you that everything is invincibly awesome at all times.
(“Invincibly Awesome at All Times” is the working title for Hips‘s autobiography, but that is another story.)
They get headaches just like we do. They know that second breakfast sometimes runs late. They face injustice, like when someone brings them shrimp when they clearly asked for the giblets with cheddar shreds.
They get overlooked by adopters they thought were cooler than Batman. They lose their friends and don’t know where to find them.
They don’t get spray cheese administered directly into their mouths, no matter how nicely they ask. They hear the backhanded compliment “he’s such a nice cat, he’s almost like a dog!”
Cats are too honest to claim life is always merry.
But at least one cat — and of course, she is a tuxedo — wants you to know that life is always Merrill.
Life is always Merrill, because Merrill is always life. I did not say that she is alive, although she is that, with flying colors. The black-and-white senior with the smidgen chin is actually inseparable from life. Life is her best friend. Life is her true love.
Life is the place to be, because life is where all the stuff lives.
Surely you know the stuff? “The stuff” is the goofball smile someone makes when they spot you, one half-second before they remember to control their excitement. “The stuff” is the existence of human eyebrows, which are universally hilarious and all different.
“The stuff” is the hundreds, if not thousands, of people paid daily to invent new flavors of cat food, like Mollusk Florentine or Psychedelic Calimari, all because people love cats (and also, people are unhinged).
“The stuff” is head-bonks and neck skritches, laps as warm as the French Riviera and friends as cool as you. “The stuff” is the little songs invented on the spot for Merrill’s personal enjoyment.
“The stuff” is the sad, scrunched look that softens into peace just because Merrill meowed at you. “The stuff” is fleece, and fountains, and furry neon mice, and volunteers who sing Jimmy Buffett songs.
“The stuff” is all twelve years that brought Merrill here — yes, all of them. There were outdoor years, and uncertain years, and years where Merrill had no stuff to call her own.
But even lean years were stuffed, because Merrill had the one plump thing that keeps life lush.
Merrill was curious.
When you are curious, you face just as much “stuff” as everyone else. You are not immune to norovirus, or the DMV, or some other cat claiming your cubby. But when you are curious, you are more than merely alive.
Merrill is not just curious about obvious curiosities, like why she feels young every time someone kisses her, or why people wear pants. Merrill is curious about all the stuff.
Merrill approaches the empty dish like an archaeologist: what happened here? What can we learn from this, so it never happens again?
Merrill is intrigued by human cheekbones, and how they rise like mountains when she walks into view. She is one small tuxedo, but she can change our topography simply by being. How can this be?
Merrill already knows the answer.
When you are life, you make everyone feel alive. If you keep it up, maybe someday, they will be life, too.
And that’s just about the best stuff in the whole wide world.