Cats are enthusiastic about excess.

They are not content with four treats, when they know there are ninety-six more in the bag.

They will not depart your lap after one hour of cuddling, when that means their day has been a meager 4% cuddled.

And they will not keep their levels of “lovable” under control.

Jamison is well aware of the risks involved with high levels of lovable.

When you are 100% lovable (which is the absolute minimum ever observed), you may be frequently interrupted by people asking “who’s my cutie gazootie pumpkin smidgen?”

(This is not a rhetorical question. You will be expected to answer.)

As you approach 500% lovable, symptoms include uncontrollable forehead kisses; designation as multiple humans’ soulmate/best friend/#1 home slice; and inspiring people to learn to crochet so they can personally make the blankets on which you dream.

But when “lovable” rises to 1,000,000%, the very rafters of reality lean in low so they can shnoogle you.

This concentration of lovable is best left to the experts, like Al Roker, your grandma, and Jamison.

Jamison is not just “lovable.” Jamison is scandalously lovable. Jamison is lovable from his electrons to his ear hair. Jamison is lovable to a degree that is scientifically impossible, yet here he is.

Jamison is so lovable, salmon in Alaska pray they will grow up to become squeeze-treats so they can meet him.

Jamison is so lovable, busy humans cancel important meetings so they can tickle his armpits instead.

Jamison is so lovable, his feline leukemia virus, commonly abbreviated FeLV, rearranged its own letters to spell LeVF, which sounds like “love” if you are so excited you get tongue-tied.

Jamison is so lovable, his own eyelids attempted to hug him. This did not go as planned.

Eyelids are awkward huggers, kind of like that guy in the No Fear T-shirt from your middle school youth group. Jamison’s eyelids were a little uncoordinated, so when they rolled inward for a hug, Jamison ended up with entropion. This painful condition causes scratched corneas, chronic infection, and possibly even ulcers and vision loss.

Like I said: there are risks at this level of lovable.

Fortunately, there is treatment available for moderate-to-severe “lovable.”

It is called “being loved.”

The day Jamison became a Tabby’s Place cat, he entered a preeminent institute for the care of the lovable. Not to toot our own horn, but we have seen these levels of “lovable” before. We have seen them over five thousand times (Jamison being our 4,896th resident).

Each time has been as shocking and newsworthy as the first time. We stagger into walls with an almost boozy infatuation: “Have you met Jamison? Have you let him whisker-kiss you, cheek-to-cheek? Can you handle happiness in doses large enough to change your life? Are you prepared to be so smitten, you forget your own name, but remember that wonderful things are not done happening, even to you?”

There was no way to prepare our hearts for the lovability of Jamison.

But thanks to you, we were at least prepared for his eyelids. Everyday, unsung acts of love — your $25 donation on a Big Bird check, or the bag of kibble you haul in from your car — strengthen Tabby’s Place to love the lovable.

In Jamison’s case, that has included administering eleven thousand chin skritches an hour (give or take), serving sumptuous stinky fish, and providing surgery to coax those eyelids back where they belong.

We also had a sit-down, heart-to-heart conversation with Jamison’s eyelids, to explain that the best way to love him is to just be ordinary eyelids.

But there’s nothing ordinary about Jamison, and nothing curable about being lovable.

And so, surprising absolutely no one, he was adopted by an angel lovable enough to fall in LeVF.

We hope they have accepted the risks of uncontrollable happiness.

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