You’re the one, sweet Izma.
Of course it’s you. It was always you. It will always be you.
But you’re not quite sure that’s a good thing. We understand.
We understand the minor key of your meow. You have the gift of gab. You did not lose it on the long flight from Lebanon to Tabby’s Place. You speak freely. Yet every sentence rises at the end? Into a question?
It is as though you are asking, over and over, Iz Me?
Some days you ask with gumption, your eyes shining like green gumdrops.
Iz Me? Are you the reason the treat bag crinkles? You prefer to call them crumpets and petits fours. “Treats” is so generic, an insult to these life-giving objects. Most cats do not contemplate salmon nuggets. Most cats do not even chew them.
But you are Izma. You have come from afar. You treat each treat as though you know someone baked it for you.
Then you hesitate. Was it for you? Are you the one? Iz Me?
You are always brave, but never certain. We understand. One moment you are rubbing us like lamps, believing humans can be gentle genies sent to grant your wishes. You melt like a creamsicle, until your love and our love are one orange ocean of affection. These are our favorite moments, when we can tell you, in word and chin-skritch, that you are the one. Iz Me? It’s you, Izma.
But the next moment, you recoil at the answer. It has been you before. It did not go so well that time.
You don’t want to talk about it. We understand. We will talk about everything else instead. We don’t understand the people from before, any more than you do. All we are told is that there was an “abusive illegal pet shop.” You were “mistreated.” It should not have happened to anyone. It should not have happened to you.
We would have moved heaven and Earth to stop it from happening to you. But it was you.
Now your voice bends at the end of every meow. Iz Me? If the answer is “no,” no one can ever hurt you again. But no one can ever touch you.
“No” is expensive. It will cost you the shine in your eyes. It will freeze your greatest asset, your golden heart. You will only eat your crumpets once they have cooled from a warm hand.
Is that the cat you want to be?
There are questions Earth cannot answer. But Iz Me? is not one of them. You have made your choice. You are the one. You are the cat who will love and be loved.
Your name means “esteemed privilege and honor.” You know your name.
Brave hands plucked you from despair in Beirut. Their courage fills your lungs for life. You were worth all they gave to save you. You were in love’s lens all along. Iz Me? It was always you, Izma.
It will always be you, and that will save your life again. There is a rattle in your voice, an uninvited frog in your throat. What first sounded like asthma has proven more serious. You have nasopharyngeal stenosis, a rare narrowing of your airway. This can be caused by trauma, old infections, or the gamble of genetics.
It can be healed, with the sort of surgery reserved for someone dearly loved.
This care is costly. It is only imaginable if our donors hold you in their hearts, even before they know your name.
It is only conceivable if the world is more warm than cold. It is only possible if you are a cat cherished and chosen.
Iz me? You deserve an answer louder than words. We understand.
So we will speak through the skilled hands of surgeons and vet techs. You will hear your name in each unfettered breath. You will taste oxygen sweeter than crumpets. You will speak freely, and we will understand.
Who is the cat whose life is worth all the love we have to give?
You’re the one, Izma. Of course it’s you. It was always you. It will always be you.