Tell Madonna she’s your lucky star, and she will believe you.
Vogue around Suite B, and you will find she knows all the moves.
Just don’t call her the Queen of Pop, because she’s one hundred percent rock ‘n roll.
Madonna was born plugged into an amp of enthusiasm. Other kittens may be as careful as clarinets, but Madonna was electrified even before her eyes opened. Together with sisters Rosie and Geena, she slid into her new home at Tabby’s Place fully aware that she is in a league of her own.
Instantly aware that we had an icon the size of a Hot Pocket on our hands, we took several selfies and then set to work dressing her up in our love. When your inamorata is an orphan kitten, this involves bottle feeding; streams of kisses; and a good sense of humor when your global icon decides to bread herself by rolling in wet food and then litter. (Have you ever expressed yourself this way? No? Then, papa, don’t preach.)
Kitten foster parents live on the borderline between heartbreak and delight. They are crazy for every angel who falls asleep in the crook of their neck. But as their babies’ eyes turn from blue to gold, the time comes to take a bow. Their secret is that they wish to keep them all. Their glory is that they live to tell how happy they are that their babies were adopted.
That’s what’s supposed to happen. The babies are supposed to get adopted.
But sometimes the record skips. The kitten gets complicated. And it’s time to put away the familiar records.
Rosie and Geena hit their home runs and left us in the usual happy tears (be it known: there is copious crying in baseball). But Madonna struggled to get into the groove. They won’t read this part in her Hall of Fame induction, but Madonna simply could not play track “number two.” There is a reason there has never been a Billboard 500 hit with the word “gastrointestinal” in the lyrics.
Madonna was not going on holiday. Madonna was going to Dr. Fantastic.
You will recall that this is our composite name for all the veterinary specialists who save and salve our cats in crisis. With apologies to the Avengers, the Spice Girls, and all those mushroom people who vibe with Mario and Luigi, this is the ultimate league of heroes. We send them our rarest and most fragile cases. They cherish them as though they were their very own cats, and they don’t give up until there is hope.
Their job is easier when the patient is exuberant.
No, Madonna was not going on holiday, but nobody told her that. Dr. Fantastic’s office was La Isla Bonita. Every pair of hands that held her was true blue. She was in pain, and her body was a bafflement, but she was born to be a ray of light.
It would be a long road to relief, but our jubilant little gemstone was not waiting to rock. She did not know that her GI issues made her “less adoptable.” She lived somewhere deeper than shame. When everyone adored her, she was not surprised.
After all, there is nothing more rock ‘n roll than to expect to be cherished.
Madonna would not be disappointed.
The kitten with the colonic stricture, born the color of sharps and flats, reminded all the ragged people (that should cover all of us) that the music never stops.
Dr. Fantastic did not give up. Tabby’s Place did not give up. You, radiant reader, did give to the Linda Fund, covering the costs of Madonna’s tour.
And so the kitten in pain became the young lady in harmony. Life is a hand-written ballad, not karaoke. Madonna knows she can count on the chords of kindness.
It all feels rather like a prayer.
PS: Who’s going to her forever home tomorrow? Madonna is going to her forever home tomorrow. Pardon us while we cry happy tears. That’s the power of goodbye.