“This is not a drill.”
These were my shining colleague Bree’s exact words.
More precisely: “THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!”
Most days, we are drowsy dragonflies, sputtering along the surface. This is not a bad thing. Life is large and loud, asking much of our wingspans and our love.
Iridescent but exhausted, we grab supplies and keep it moving.
But there are sea monsters in our creek, and they nip at our wings. Grief and distrust, doubt and self-doubt, sick cats and slick people threaten to pull us under.
This is when we drill down beneath the waterline.
We celebrate Lola‘s blossoming, a marriage of courage and kindness.
We hold high the tiniest kittens, rebel survivors the size of a Ding-Dong.
We make much of Mars, the planet-eyed cat who “should not” have outlived her injuries.
We dive for hope until we are breathless.
We cannot conquer all ferocious things.
We drill down until we can drill no more. If we are to rejoice again, the drilling can’t be up to us.
Fortunately, this is not a drill.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!
Out from the bleakest bayou they come. They are the cats of patience and the people of purpose. They are the beasts of blessing and the humans of hope.
Breaching like whales, they break the stillwater of our sorrows.
They are Wilbur (on whom the whale comparison is not lost), long-overlooked but high on music.
Where lesser beings would sing dirges, he was knee-slappin’ bluegrass. Where prudent planners would have erased “adoption” from the ten-year plan, he just bought bigger planners. (He fully intends to live another thirty years.)
Where other adopters avoided “orange-collar cats,” the people of peace were born for bright music. Wilbur, that Wilbur, the world’s best Wilbur, has been adopted.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!
But mercies are no loners, preferring to swim like otters holding hands. No sooner had we wiped the wonder-tears from our eyes than they fell again. Someone had fallen for Iris and Nemo.
The mother of all caution and the son of sun flares were our wariest duo, curled into each other like the DNA they share. Few adopters ask for anxious cats, semi-touchables who expect tidepools of time.
But the best of all species know: time is a language. The patient ellipsis and the cheer squad of commas mean “love.” Mr. Iris-Nemo, as we shall call the AwesomeAdopter, speaks it fluently.
Every dragonfly over Tabby’s Place is too grateful to speak.
All we can do is shout.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!
What this is, is a rescue mission from beyond.
What this is, is a reminder of the watershed that keeps hope flowing.
What this is, is love as large as life. Which is to say, almost as large as Wilbur.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!