We are not living in a movie. We are living in life, which is better.
But sometimes, we still cast characters. Lina hopes we will grow out of this.
We are the species who invented spray cheese and low-rise jeans, so we do not always exercise stellar judgment. Worst of all, we make judgments, and then we put them in frames and hang them on the wall.
We see that Cornbread crumbles away from our touch, and we cast him as Chancellor Cowardly. He is the cat who cowers, the nimbus cloud. He is the guy who skips graduation because he cannot bear to hear his name called. He does not join extracurricular activities.
In the movie, he is “that guy,” as in, “who is that guy? I know that guy. Google that guy. I can never remember his name.” He does not share his poetry with anyone.
Except, he does. He is the best friend Chicken Nugget ever had. He is not shrinking grey, but a full rainbow. He is complex, changing, and always growing.
Just when we think his fears are baked in, he asks for a bigger pan. He lets us skritch his neck. He graduates from Cornbread to Cornbread, free to surprise us, forever himself.
We admire Ned in mid-air, a vaulting jaunty acrobat, and we cast him as Governor Goofus. He has a beef with gravity and gravitas. He is kinetic and frenetic and possibly soaking his kibble in espresso when we’re not looking. He is the clown who does not touch down to this planet where the rest of us muddle. In the movie, he is the stunt double. He does not get the earnest lines.
Except, he does. Ned will stop everything if your shoulders are slumped. He is equal parts Shenanigan Specialist and shaman. He hears what you do not say and will cheer you as quietly as you need. Ned is brilliant enough to figure out quantum mechanics and how to fold a fitted sheet. He is multifaceted and multi-talented and always growing. He graduates from Ned to Ned, free to try on traits, forever himself.
And then, there is Lina.
Lina, New York’s cheekiest, was an “orange collar cat” from her opening lines. She is a short fuse, with eyes larger than most planets. She nips, she nuzzles, and she doesn’t notify you in advance. She never signed up to live in New Jersey, to bunk with bumbling boys like Poppa Lay, or to read lines someone else wrote for her.
She certainly never signed up to wear an orange collar.
An orange collar has its uses at Tabby’s Place. It tells visitors that they are in the presence of a spicy, saucy cat. It prevents Girl Scout troops from shnoogling individuals who do not wish to be shnoogled. It is a gentle warning to persons who prefer to remain un-punctured.
It is not meant to be destiny.
But the orange color, noble and necessary, has a way of cementing your place in the cast. When you have been collared as long as Lina, you know what to expect. People admire you but keep their distance.
You are neon orange, not dainty pink. You are Elizabeth Taylor, not Audrey Hepburn. You are punk rock, not the harp. You are a ghost pepper, not a jazz apple.
Until you improvise and upend all assumptions.
You graduate from Lina to Lina, becoming more and more yourself.
You try on new roles. You are never one thing. You contain multitudes. (You read Walt Whitman to the bumbling boys so they understand.) You continue to arrive. You cuddle people. You pursue peace, and find that it has already caught you. You stop biting. You stick your neck out and see what would happen if you got stuck on “sweet.”
Your neck no longer fits the orange collar. You are as surprised as anyone else.
You get adopted.
Orange collars come, and orange collars go. Costume is not destiny. Lina is proof that any day can be graduation day, and everyone will cheer your name.
This is what happens when you live in life instead of a movie. You get to grow. And when your life plays out at Tabby’s Place, you are always a perfect fit.