O, hairy licorice twist, how shall we describe you?

You are the black cat who uses every crayon in the box.

You are the alphabet in ecstasy.

You are not dour, but Doury. You have chosen well.

No one could blame you if you took the first four letters of your name as a prophecy. Many a cat, human, or senator would be dour, given your circumstances. You were born in Beirut’s rubble, acquainted with war.

Yet your battle began before your toes hit the ground.

Other cats are born with a full quiver of neurons. But beneath your rock star shag, your cerebellum was small. The diagnosis is “cerebellar hypoplasia,” but you have never been one for big words. You realized you would never walk a straight line. No matter how carefully you planned, you could never control where your foot would land.

You decided this was fun.

You decided this was not a disability, but a quest.

You chose to throw a party. It won’t be over until the “cops” come. There are many self-appointed authorities who would arrest you for excess exuberance.

But neither the cops nor the cheetahs can keep up with you, because you are not dour.

You are Doury, the electric otter. You came from Lebanon on a plane, but you would have gotten here faster if you’d been allowed to just flap your own legs. You will make up for lost time.

You will chase Prescott‘s tail like the victory pennant it is. She will be patient until she needs to bite you, at which time you will laugh so loud, the whole world will laugh with you.

You will challenge every living creature to a footrace, whether they happen to be in REM sleep or carrying eighty pounds of kitty litter at the time. You will not take “no” for an answer.

And the goal of all this running is to slow us down. It is only when you stop sleeping or schlepping that you find time to laugh.

You will commune with the very young and very old, who are usually the best at remembering what time is for.

Time is for getting on your hands and knees so you can do “The Doury,” America’s next dance craze. Time is for settling into the sofa, so that a cat who looks like the lost Ramone can remind you that there is nothing better than having nothing to do and nowhere to go.

You never know what might happen next.

Neither will we, but you are smart enough to throw a party about it. We furrow our brows, arm ourselves to the teeth, and outdo each other in getting dour. Meanwhile, you try to put your left foot in, and your right foot jiggles, and yyour body erupts in spontaneous acts of hokey-pokey.

Has any cat ever been so rich? Has any cat ever been so awake?

You will not close your eyes, except to sleep. You are working on a way around this, because there is just so much to see. There are volunteers who go wobbly-kneed at the sight of you, and there are staff members who sneak you chicken cookies. There are fluorescent lights, and a tortie the size of a sedan named “Moo Moo,” which makes you laugh. And we all know what happens when you laugh.

You get adopted. Which you did, on the first day of Meteorological Spring. (There are no coincidences.)

And so, the hope quotient for our hemisphere goes up seventy thousand percent.

It is a good thing you’re not dour. The party has just begun.

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