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Hamster-sized hunters

Hamster-sized hunters

Our beef may be plant-based.*

Our teeth may not yet exist.

But make no mistake: the humans and kittens of Tabby’s Place are hunters at heart.

Frootloop’s worries are few

If we are kittens, we are hunting in all directions at all times, pursuing sunbeams and fidgety fingers as though it is our job.

At Tabby’s Place, this is, in fact, the kittens‘ job. Spared the ancient vocation of struggling to survive, our fuzzy chicks are freed to advance their true calling.

They taste the air and behold their own milk-full bellies, satisfied micro-walruses on the beach of our laps.

They make-believe in a world they (correctly) believe was made for them, turning carriers into Conestoga wagons, fancying themselves starship captains and commanders of sardine dynasties.

“Did someone say ‘micro-walrus’?” – well-fed Weetabix

They pursue the noble career of being children, cherished children, children whose cares are larger children’s concern. They live the life every kitten deserves. Theirs is the horizon; ours is the honor of assuring them they are adored.

Together, we are the luckiest children under Orion’s belt.

Spork spears his days with the weapons of wonder. No longer prey, Earth’s most angelic orphan can hunt and gather. He tilts at jingle balls and collects kisses. He captures vast fleece terrain and clobbers foster sister Crumpet (who counter-clobbers him with twice the starlight).

Baja Blast and her siblings hunt comfort, the quarry of every honest creature. Too young to see, they will never glimpse the alternate universe in which they were too small to survive. Plucked from peril, they will grow up grabbing berries off the vine. The once-doomed family (including mama Tacos Locos) has come into the kingdom of the cherished.

Only an individual this glorious could be named for the world’s coolest utensil…

Weetabix, Frootloop and Krispie bag big game: human hearts and April afternoons. Their late brothers hover like marmalade angels, reminders that it could have been otherwise, reminders that our labors are neither invincible nor in vain, reminders that love is always a half-heartbroken hunter.

But even with heartache hot on our trail, we pursue.

We hunt fading bouquets, clutches of cotton balls that turn out to be tiny friends.

We hunt hope beyond hope, the survival of the small and the scared and the sacred.

We hunt the one thing, the only thing, the single thing that cannot be broken.

Baja Blast, you command the starship of our hearts

It’s not kittens, who are as fragile as they are perfect.

It’s not our own hearts, hurried hummingbirds that can’t rest in the fortress of the indifferent.

It’s not even each other, reckless mortals who weep and worry and wrong each other and die.

It’s the love too stubborn to shake hands with despair.

It’s the grit that won’t give up on one another, of either species.

It’s the warmth that knows nothing of “worth,” only that someone small needs us.

There are no boundaries to this bond.

Gratuitous Spork. You’re welcome.

There is no end to this hunt.

There is nothing in heaven or on earth like cherishing the kittens.

*Let the reader understand that we do not, I repeat, we do not, inflict non-dairy meat entities on innocent cats. This would violate our bylaws and constitute a war crime. So calm down and tell Interpol that we keep our pea-based beef to ourselves. Also, most of us humans do have teeth, not that we need them for pea-beef.

1 thought on “Hamster-sized hunters

  1. Yes they are tiny and fragile and oh! so dear. Thank you for introducing us to the sweet world of baby cats – Tabby’s Place kittens are the most fortunate in the world.

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