We have lived so many lives since the year was new.
January’s resolutions are wadded up like parking tickets and Burger King receipts under our seats.
But the Abacus is ready for a reset.
If you’re brave enough, July is a second January. The year is middle-aged, itching for a second act.
This is good news for people who are human. Perhaps you did not keep up with bassoon lessons. Quinoa gave way to Easy Mac. You are six months older, you slept through the strawberry moon, and your boss just pointed out that there are Oreo crumbs on your forehead.
You get a second January, called July. This is good news.
The second January is also good news for people who are feline.
I am speaking to the cat who welcomed 2024 with fanfare. Black velvet against the snow, you were the talk of the town. (The town was Ringoes, New Jersey, but still, it was yours.)
No one had seen a cat like you before. You were described as “25% body, 75% head.” You knew this was a compliment.
A cranium of your caliber has the power to pull satellites, tides, and misplaced meatballs. Your body might be a single stick of licorice, but your head is an exoplanet. You celebrated this by giving everyone permission to cancel their memberships to Planet Fitness.
You were diagnosed as “double positive,” infected with both feline immunodeficiency virus (FIV) and feline leukemia virus (FeLV). You took this as proof that you have been accepted to both the FBI and CIA. Culinary Institute of America, that is.
But the wheels came off before you could count your blessings, Abacus.
Your unique physique rippled with ringworm, the fungus that respects neither kitten nor king. You were subjected to dips in lime sulfur. You received precisely zero elk nuggets or yak fingers, despite the fact that you asked nicely.
You decorated your quarantine cage with artisanal “snot rockets,” only to be gently treated for an infection, nasal flush and all. One cannot just buy more snot rockets at HomeGoods.
But these people wanted you healthy. These people wanted you, period. You could not quite add that up, not yet.
And then, you were … well, the word they used was “neutered.” You would prefer not to discuss this further.
But then, as if your big head weren’t already bewildered, and your big heart ready to break, you nearly died.
Had you been at the FBI, the CIA, or anywhere but Ringoes, this would have been your final winter, Abacus. But the mathematics of mercy made you a Tabby’s Place cat.
Since all eyes were on your massive cranium and your minuscule body, you got a second act.
First, you got an all-expenses-paid trip to the emergency vet. This was not the package you booked. You have written several stern reviews, 0/10.
You were ready for fun, sun, and masterclasses with Guy Fieri. Instead, you got your bladder unblocked. You got “intensive care,” which sounds lovely but involves catheters.
You got one more diagnosis: feline lower urinary tract disease. Being Abacus, you added all of this up to optimism. Surely, this meant a special diet. You dreamed of medically mandatory mayonnaise and emu tortellini.
You woke up to a can of prescription pate and a sign on the door: “Abacus CAN NOT HAVE TREATS OF ANY KIND.”
You felt like December incarnate.
But your bladder signed a treaty to let you live, as long as you could live without treats.
And everyone in sight seemed to be living for you.
Suddenly, you were given more than you could wrap your massive mind around. Staff, volunteers, visitors, and miscellaneous dryer repair men kissed every hair on your herculean head. One hundred percent of your body felt one hundred percent alive. “Health” was delicious, even if it could not be breaded or spatchcocked.
And then, there was Trifecta.
Whether you are a human person or a feline person, you cannot find a better friend than Trifecta. Dressed in the colors of a pigeon, and as gentle as a dove, Trifecta is affection with a heartbeat. His molecules are made of fondness. He is the guy who wakes up every morning and whispers, “another one?”
He was infatuated with you from your arrival, Abacus.
And so, the aging year became new.
Here, in the pudgy middle of 2024, the cat with the bony body and the internationally acclaimed head is beginning again.
As planets (disguised as people) revolve around him, Abacus resolves to love his life. Every day is the first of the year, and he helps himself to seconds. 
So, he can’t have treats, or potpies, or an un-hyphenated life. So, his past has crumbs and bums (see: “neutering”) and comedies of error.
Let the year be new as many days as there are “today.” There is sun in the solarium, and a grey goofus hanging on Abacus’s every bead. There is no shame in being FIV+, FeLV+, and absolutely positive that you are the center of the solar system.
There is no end to what love will do.
There is half a year ahead, and a cat who is 25% body ready to lead us into it, head-first.
Abacus did the math. He says the best is yet to come.
Let us begin.