You have perhaps heard the tragedy of Dorian Gray.
You have yet to hear the comedy of Dorian the silver.
The Dorian of literature made a few poor choices. (I am understating the case. This is like observing, “Taylor Ham weighs a few pounds,” or “Olive says a few bad words from time to time.”) He was so desperate to remain young, he let his portrait do all the aging for him. Things did not end well.
They never do, when you yield your years to fears of the end.
The Dorian of Tabby’s Place, on the other hand, did not have many choices. Time stands still when you are hungry. Life in an overcrowding situation makes a cat feel five hundred years old.
You might think Dorian was desperate. Heck, Dorian might have thought Dorian was desperate. But things were about to begin well.
They always do, when you yield your fears to the future.
At the start, Dorian’s portrait was a faint pencil sketch. Our new arrival was meek and delicate. We did not want to snap the fine filigree of trust. Our intake team proceeded so gently, they were not even sure of Dorian’s gender. There would be time to check on that later.
There is always time when love is louder than the clock.
Time does not feel like a friend if you are afraid of going gray. It gnashes its teeth, and all you see is loss — of beauty, or vigor, or the ability to stay up past 9pm.
But if time keeps introducing you to its friends, you forget to be afraid.
You start to wonder if maybe you have not yet met everyone you are going to love, and vicey versey. (No cat would ever say “vicey versey,” but Dorian will forgive me, because that is what friends do.)
You start to begin all sorts of beginnings.
You start to laugh at the words “too late.”
Dorian could laugh more freely once we took out several teeth. She may have been in pain for years. But age nine would be younger than age eight. Youth has little to do with the color of your whiskers, and everything to do with what makes your eyebrows go up.
If you remain astonished, you will never be old. The youngest among us always have their heads tilted.
It is not a coincidence that Dorian has a permanent head tilt.
There is a benign biological explanation for this. But with apologies to Dorian’s inner ear, we know the real reason for Dorian’s portrait. She is trying to take it all in. It is too wonderful. The light bounces off her life and makes her squint.
She is not grey, but silver; not lead, but chrome.
She is FIV+, but that just means she gets to live with Rihanna, Bruno, and Polly. Good comes from the “negative” every day.
Unlike that other Dorian, our lady is proud of her years.
She is discovering chin skritches, boisterous belly rubs, and safety that stays. She is twenty feet away from the Fountain of Wet Food (code named “The Sanctuary Operations Center,” but Dorian knows the truth).
People walk into the room and gasp for joy at her existence. Dorian sees her portrait in our irises, the beautiful cat who finally belongs. Dorian wriggles for joy. We respond in kind.
Dorian is not getting any younger, and neither are we. But we have been written into a comedy, not a tragedy.
The longer you look at someone, the more beautiful they become. Take it from Dorian the silver, the girl who shines.