Timid poet, you asked so little of life, and always politely.
Life smiled every time it said your name.
Horace, meek and merciful, you came to us just before Thanksgiving. Over many months, you never got over being surprised. Perhaps this is an incurable condition for every honest creature.
You were surprised when we did not eat you, or blast polka music in your suite all night, or whatever it was you expected us to do. Your pure heart welled up in your eyes, and you asked us not to hurt you. It hadn’t occurred to you that life could be brighter than the absence of harm.
But you learned, little poet.
Your coconut feet stepped carefully on the islands of one astonishment after another. Your fears dropped off the tree and rolled out of sight. You never knew to ask for a family, but here we were, sweet and strange and glad as giant teddy bears to have you here with us.
Your eyes slipped us sonnets under the doors you could not open. You were not a teddy bear, but you loved us. When a soft voice sang your name, or undemanding fingers brushed your brow, you puddled into poetry.
You were named for the greatest lyric poet of ancient Rome. Of him it was said, “He can be lofty sometimes, yet he is also full of charm and grace, versatile in his figures, and felicitously daring in his choice of words.”
You were daring, Horace, brave enough to believe in something too good to be true.
You reminded us that you did not ask for this. It was preposterous, really: a stray cat, infected with an inconvenient retrovirus, celebrated like a lion or a laureate. From Rome to Ringoes, this level of admiration usually belongs to the bold and the glamorous, the perfect and the proud.
Unconditional love is not something you can expect from this world.
But, to our surprise as much as yours, there is another world inside this world.
Love constitutes its own cosmos. At the center of this solar system, you will find the honest and the small. You will find an FIV+ cat who never wanted to be held, but who held every surprise close to his heart.
You are etched into our hearts, Horace, even as we yearn for lyrics you will not live to write. Renal lymphoma roared forth without warning, putrid prose explaining your weight loss. Your eyes, ever speaking, asked us to love you for yourself. Love, its own answer, promised we would not put you through any treatment that would betray your trust.
Time was short, but the beams of sun in your solarium were long. You grew large even as you turned lean. You told every cat in Suite D how you felt about them. You left no love unspoken.
Little poet, you never asked to live forever. But, in the language beyond speech, you will.
You will live every time cats comfort each other with their own warmth, wrapping a moment in mercy, the way you enfolded Poppa and Chicken and Mustache.
You will live every time someone sees himself whole in the smiling iris of another, love reflecting love without demanding anything.
You will live every time an “ordinary” cat reorders our priorities, until every last lyric is love, love, love.
We only ask that we will see you again when all the music comes true.
Until that day, and ever onward, we love you, Horace.
Photos courtesy of Horace’s unfailing friend, Board member and volunteer Allison, who writes, “Horace was a quite gentle soul. His Suite D kitty friends were his family, and he loved them and loved being close to them. He wasn’t one for lots of pets, but he did enjoy being close and listening to me talk to him. He would flip and flop and purr and show me how handsome he is. He wasn’t with us for long, but he was safe, happy and enjoyed many wonderful days close to his kitty friends. I will miss sweet Horace and his gentle presence.”