What is the goal?
Where is the end of the rainbow?
Why is there always a carrot on the end of the stick, when it could be a brick of Spam?
We are goal-oriented little gumballs at Tabby’s Place, asteroids hurtling towards forevers. Show us a cat the earth deems “unadoptable,” and we will light up your sky and your social media feed with astonishments.
We have seen great astonishments in these days of sun.
Shifty: sixteen years + zero teeth + one wonky pancreas + parakeet voice in pachyderm body = adopted.
Boba and Espresso: bubbles + caffeine + the scariest infectious disease – a single drop of despair = adopted.
Wilbur: knee-slappin’ bluegrass soul + cat-slappin’ menace to felinity X manatee mirth = adopted.
You show me your reasonable expectations, I will raise you one Rusty. You show me statistics, I will gush the straight flush of Pickles, Mika, and Snowy. You show me prudence, I will raise you the full house of Iris and Nemo. The winner takes all.
But the winner doesn’t always “win.”
What is the goal?
Which side is up on this road map?
In this case, as many others (e.g. mastery of Captain Beefheart lyrics, proficiency in peculiar accents from no known country, and compassion for all beings), our Founder & Executive Director, Jonathan, is the ultimate authority.
From the dawn of Tabby’s Place, Jonathan’s goal for our residents has been simply this: the best interest of every cat.
The best interest may mean peace for Polly. Wiggly as a vigorous vermicelli, the belle of Beirut has no eyes and no qualms about expressing her opinion. Polly does not want us to hold her. Polly does not want us to sing her “Beyond the Sea.” Polly may want to hear Jonathan’s funny accents, but only because he’s on her side in every dialect.
Polly does not want prosaic pampering. But Polly wants to break her own slabs of peace off the universe. Polly wants to smack our vet tech’s hand with angry appreciation for treats. Polly wants her dignity and her routines and perhaps the occasional can of spray cheese.
The goal is not adoption. The goal is wholeness. Polly may be a Tabby’s Place cat forever. Polly will hit the jackpot. Polly’s best interest will have the last word.
The best interest may mean lush life for Cookie Monster. An aircraft carrier wearing a satin tuxedo, Cookie bears flights of fancy and suffers no fools. Her busy brain is thunderous with ideas. Her soaring heart has room for multitudes.
But Cookie’s anger is legendary. She is nineteen pounds of intensity, a Black Forest cake in a world of powdery donut holes. She is our scowling sweetheart, swaggering with entitlement. She loves us most when we are reverent. She asks for treats so she can tell us off. She growls and swears and commands fleets of fish cookies. She is not a monster.
The goal is not adoption. The goal is sweetness. Cookie may be a Tabby’s Place cat forever. Cookie will hit the jackpot. Cookie’s best interest will have the last word.
The best interest may mean expanding Hashbrown’s repertoire of hobbies. The strongest potato is a master of mixed martial arts, but his roommates have mixed feelings. One does not simply slap Sunflowers and crush Mullets, even if one is a high-carb ego polished to a silver sheen. We have signed Hashbrown up for enriching activities beyond “rolling my neighbors off the ramp like Skittles.” We have aligned the stars to twinkle for his steely heart.
We will never resign ourselves to the lie that Hashbrown is a “bad” cat. Yes, he is magma in mink, anger mismanagement under angora, furred fury with a soul made of good. He is ours, and we love him, and we will do whatever it takes for him to feel at home.
The goal is not adoption. The goal is toasty harmony. Hashbrown may be a Tabby’s Place cat forever. Hashbrown will hit the jackpot. Hashbrown’s best interest will have the last word.
What is the goal?
How do you spell “forever”?
There are as many correct answers as there are living beings, and our job is to cherish each other through the questions.
Your goal may not be the corner office. Your goal may not be children. Your goal may be to write, or to make hamburgers for the hungry, or to keep a date with the deep forest every Sunday. You may be a mystery to yourself forever. You will hit the jackpot. Your best interest will have the last word.
Long before you were called anything else, you were called to be fully alive.
Climb up the clock tower, let out all the fireflies in your jar, and cry out: there is no “unadoptable.” Climb back down, curl into a cubby, and smile yourself to sleep: there is no sole goal.
Or rather, there is, but it’s more beautiful than we remember.
The goal is peace, dignity, and a seat at love’s table.
The goal is a custom fit in a patchwork world.
We are called to a forever home in a hundred accents.