There is a force that keeps love in orbit.
There is a green that can’t be seen.
There is a cat named Baby Yoda in Jonathan’s office.
Our resident alien is an extra-shy terrestrial. You would not reckon him the greatest power between the ocean and the moon. If he practices telekinesis, he keeps it to himself.
But the force is strong with this one.
It is not the force of ego. While other cats dream of the power to command nation-states and nuggets, Baby Yoda waives his right to world domination. He is as braggadocious as a marigold, as booming as a kazoo.
Size matters not.
He wants so badly for Marcia to be his friend, he will yield honor and kibble. This has yet to prove effective. Marcia will tolerate her admirer to a point. But she thinks Baby Yoda is a goo-brained geek who is most useful when Jeopardy! has a category on Wookiee Anthropology or Lesser Known Hobbits.
He is equally besotted with cats in the next star-cluster. The Great Comet Hips hurtles past the door to Jonathan’s office at speeds that thrill Baby Yoda’s soul. A pulsar called Prescott dangles stars in his eyes.
And then there is that elite asteroid, Grecca, revered from here to Tatooine as the loudest entity known to man or Mandalorian.
Baby Yoda peeks out the door, humble and wonder-struck.
Other cats are proud planets, hula hooping in rings of self esteem. Baby Yoda just wants to be part of their circle of friends. He does not want to show them his powers. He’ll let them be the stars, as long as they let him in.
This is our first hint that he is not of this world.
No, Baby Yoda does not practice the force of ego. But neither does he excel in the force of perfection.
Before you call the Jedi Council on me, let me clarify. Baby Yoda shares in the effortless perfection of all cats. He is made of splendor and empathy, with no artificial ingredients.
But, although he is a cat who likes to loiter last in line, he is first to foreclose on the force of “perfection.”
Baby Yoda is not one to bleach the shadows from his story.
He was “just a stray,” no one’s prized plush toy. He remains an amateur at etiquette, infatuated in all directions but unable to elaborate.
To top it off, he had a disease that makes the galaxy gasp.
There was a time when three letters caused a great disturbance. Anytime a veterinarian said F-I-P, it was as if millions of voices cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.
You might call it the Darth Coronavirus. While most cats are exposed to a form of coronavirus without incident, some are mauled by its mutation. It is an innocuous disease turned imperial. It is the Death Star from which no cat ever disembarked.
Until now.
We live in the time of a new hope. We get to blow up FIP, over and over again, and we jump up and down like Ewoks every time. The grievous disease is vanquished with antivirals. Fading cats are restored to supernovas.
Every survivor tilts the universe closer to the “yes” for which it was made.
Every survivor is spectacular.
But the force is strong with this one.
The force is nothing less than gentleness.
If every Tabby’s Place cat is sent to us for a reason, Baby Yoda came to call us back to our home planet. He is not here to strut or to shout. He has no desire to put himself on display.
All he wants is to adore.
He is smitten. It shoots out of him like rays. He is astonished, which makes him more alive than most creatures.
He can no more contain his love than he can turn his orange stripes green.
From a distance, it may appear that a shivering stick of string cheese boarded a star-ship to a sanctuary. But come a little closer, and you will feel the full force.
Persevering love plays with the planets, like a grand game of croquet.
A deadly disease has fallen from the sky, never to rise again.
Gentleness gilds the heavens.
A way, there always is.