Are you sure you want to join us out here?

The twig is thin. The risks are real. The view is magnificent.

You are exceedingly welcome here. But Blaze and I want to be sure you know what you’re getting into.

Blaze arrived laden with labels. Like TJ Maxx price tags, they would not peel off easily. Bold print made brash claims: Abandoned. Kidney Disease. Special Needs.

One tenth of our Beirut Blossoms, Blaze had borne her burdens far across the sea. Her heart was light with the sacred stubbornness of cats.

And she’d brought her own label-maker: Beautiful Bonfire. Audaciously Orange. Lover Lover Lover Lover Lover.

If you were a cat who had traveled over five thousand miles with cantankerous kidneys, you would be wise to protect yourself. Having been burned once, you might tend your flames jealously, cool to the touch. Your labels would stick, and your history would sting. You would learn to quiet your hunger pangs.

But if you were a solar ball of courage, you might shine without shame.

If you were a brave tangerine bird, you might go out on a limb.

If you were a Lover Lover Lover Lover Lover, you might risk it all.

If you were a burning bush named Blaze, you just might claim your own patch of holy ground.

And so, with all her labels and her longings, Blaze torched prudence and caution. She adored us, she hoped we adored her, and she would not wait for us to say it first.

She would tell us exactly how happy she was to be here, fireballs of feelings flying like meteors.

Perhaps we would abandon her. Perhaps we would laugh at her. Perhaps we would punish her with vegan cheese and forced viewings of C-SPAN.

Perhaps we would be careful and measured with our love, reading warning labels. Perhaps we would shy away from that dangerous mush that complicates lives.

Perhaps you’ve forgotten that Tabby’s Place is incapable of the uncomplicated life.

Every inch as foolish and fiery as Blaze, we fell all over each other to be all in. Her kidneys swore like Samuel L. Jackson, and her future was as clear as smoke, but no matter. We would love her as though we stood outside time.

We would stand together on the lean limb where lovers dance. We may fall, hard. We may have our hearts scorched.

We will see the lush land beyond labels and disease, where it’s never too soon or too foolish to give everything.

The bush is burning, but it is not consumed. Blaze is fired-up with friendship, the squishy center of our collective, smitten s’more. Fluids and prescription food will quiet those kidneys, a sort of medical etiquette class for their crassness.

And Blaze’s brave love has kindled a heart all her own. That’s right: Blaze has become the “Forever Foster” of a devoted volunteer.

And all those lousy labels?

Yeah, they’re still present.

You and I have them, too: Special Needs. Especially Neurotic. Eats Entire Sleeves Of Oreos. Obsessed With Li’l Yachty. Feels Like A Child. Scared Of Being Seen. Scared Of Loss. Scared, Period.

But if you live from the blazing center, labels are of little concern.

When love is the center of gravity, “out on a limb” is the safest place on earth.

Come on over to the campfire. Bring your label maker. And emblazon this on everything you own: Lover Lover Lover Lover Lover.

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