It is a cat’s prerogative to change her mind.

Let’s say you’ve swooned for wet food all your days. But one day, you take a look at that glop and say, “by George, this smells like excrement.” It is your right to hate wet food from this moment forward.

Maybe you’ve flown into a rage at the first sight of a cat brush. But one morning, you wake up and think, “perhaps that grooming tool should be permitted to live.” You have the liberty to bare your belly for the brush.

If you’re Freyja, you have the unconditional authority to do a U-ey: however you started, you need not remain.

This is not to say that there was anything wrong with how Freyja began her journey. Well, truth be told, we don’t know precisely how the good ship Freyja launched. But we do know where she was before docking in this harbor.

She was Freyja the Feral.

By “feral,” in this case, I mean “utterly, outrageously, inexplicably non-feral member of a feral colony.” This head-bonking, leg-rubbing creature was the oddest ball in a feral pack of peculiars. But judging from solely her circumstances, “feral” Freyja was. She found her food with the other ferals, shared their slivers of warmth in a weary winter, and lived the life of a feral Freyja.

Feral she would remain unless a better story broke through. But love finds the courage to change.

An animal control officer of uncommon coolness and warmth first glimpsed the possibility of Freyja’s reinvention. Freyja the Feral rolled her Rubenesque roundness all over his feet, guzzling up his affections and practically shouting, I’m ready for my Act II.

Perseverance and providence brought Freyja to Tabby’s Place. But it was Freyja’s own arrow that shot her in a wild new direction.

Freyja the Feral became Freyja the Fervent.

Fervently Fond. Fervently Friendly. Ferociously, firmly, faithfully wild with love for our species.

She may have walked with the ferals for a season, but Freyja takes her marching orders from no one. And, make no mistake: Freyja is marching on towards wonder.

No, really. I mean she is literally marching.

Visit Freyja in Suite B and you’ll witness this for yourself. No sooner do you start stroking her orblike head than Freyja begins her one-woman parade. Hup two three four…her sturdy white feet beat out the cadence for as long as you’ll love her. If you stop too soon, she’ll freeze, one paw midair, and widen her worldly eyes at you. OH NO YOU DIDN’T.

Fail to resume, and Freyja’s fervor turns loud. MEOW. MOW. TOUCH. ME. NOW.

And then you resume. Because Freyja is the queen.

Lest we think this new, old, true sweet side is the only facet left to Freyja, our plump pastel beauty has a few more surprises. Freyja reminded us of her prerogative to change her mind recently, when brave Denise had to restrain her for a procedure. Friendly, fuzzy Freyja immediately became FREYJA THE WILD SAVAGE WARRIOR BEAST, spewing projectile diarrhea and throwing her claws in all directions like twenty-one nunchucks.

Denise is still healing. We are all still laughing.

And Freyja is still glowing towards full glory. We’ll be here, beholding her with love, wherever she grows.

As always, the wisdom of cats translates to our own species.

Maybe you led the neo-folk revival, and banjos are your birthright. If suddenly you’re smitten with synths, God bless your beautiful heart. You don’t owe anyone a single twang.

Perhaps you’re the pastry chef who tops every torte with tortoni. Are you fixin’ to transition to an all-grits menu? I reckon you’re within your rights to do so.

And if after all that, you want to go back to your roots? Go for it, great ones.

Bust those expectations. Grow your glorious soul. Change and stretch and try things. You’re still you, and the ones who love you aren’t going anywhere.

We are, all of us, in process.

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