By the time you have 108 candles on your cake, I hope you forgive everyone.
But, if your name is Theodosia, I just hope I can duck in time to dodge the cake as you throw it at your nearest nemesis.
Two lines into this blog post, and already I’ve stepped in it.
Promise me you won’t tell Theodosia I implied she is 108 years old. Promise me you won’t tell Theodosia I said anything other than “Theodosia is queen, and I am unworthy.”
Promise me, or we might both be taking a cake to the noggin.
It’s not that Theodosia is unstable. Although, if they ever cast for The Real Housecats of Ringoes, a certain tailless nimbostratus cloud will be first in line.
It’s not that Theodosia has an ego. Silly human. Theodosia is composed completely of id.
It’s not even that Theodosia makes enemies easily. Theodosia is grace and virtue. Theodosia is six pounds of hospitality. Theodosia makes mini-muffins to feed the masses. Theodosia has never made an enemy in her life. Warfare is beneath a queen.
Screaming, however, is the privilege of royalty.
Screaming is the appropriate answer to existential questions like, “what happens to laps when people stand up?” and “who said people could stand up?” and “who authorized the persistence of non-Theodosial cats?”
Screaming is a suitable pastime when you live in a coatroom, but cannot find Narnia, no matter how often you burrow through the hoodies.
Screaming is a punk rock response to the rumor that you are “old.”
Unfortunately, screaming has the side effect of making enemies.
The Tabby’s Place coatroom was supposed to be Boca Raton. We made it plush and pleasant. We appointed the walls with soft artwork and the kind of kindness that makes golden gals feel young, even if they are grey.
We introduced Theodosia and Atari. We assumed they would play canasta and one-up each other’s stories about their grandchildren.
(Being spayed cats of a certain age, Theodosia and Atari have to get creative when it comes to grandchildren. This means that we are Theodosia and Atari’s grandchildren. If you get a 94 in physics, Theodosia will ask where the other six points went. Then she will say she was just kidding and make you salmon muffins. Just do not, under any circumstances, address her as “MeeMaw.”)
We assumed that old cats will love other old cats, because we love old cats.
We assumed the ladies of the coat room were too sedate to see red.
No wonder Theodosia had to start screaming.
Nobody wants to fall face-first on the asphalt of assumptions. Cats are no different. They are individuals, not mascots of their generations.
Behold the exceptions. There are juveniles as jaunty as Jabba the hut, and super-seniors who will never fit the mold of “old.” There are muscular flower children, and tailless elders who practice mixed martial arts.
There is precisely one Theodosia, a Special Needs cat with a curio cabinet of opinions.
She is no dotard, and she is not docile. (Please tell Theodosia I made it clear she is not docile.) She becomes progressively less docile as she collects years.
Years are not porcelain figurines or commemorative plates. Years are medals and microphones.
Years do not change a cat.
Years boldface the story you’ve been trying to tell all along.
Years make you more yourself.
Years make you honest.
Years make you brave, if you let them.
Alas, we cannot let Theodosia scream Atari into submission, so the ladies of the coat room have gone their separate ways.
We permit Theodosia to believe she won the game. From the bay window of the Community Room, Atari thinks this is hilarious. Please tell Atari that I said she is both hilarious and bodacious, and also queen. The only queen.
By the time you are chronologically old, I hope you forgive every member of every species.
But if you can’t, I hope you have as much fun as Theodosia.