There is some confusion about the name “Malora.”
In one language, it means “downfall.”
In another, it’s slang for “partner in crime.”
But when the cat’s got your tongue, “Malora” can only mean “it gets better.”
It was the downfall of the familiar when Malora came to Tabby’s Place.
The world outdoors was lonely, but known. Most smaller mammals (cats, humans, senators, etc.) will huddle in the half-life of our habits when change offers us a ride.
But ours was an offer Malora could not refuse. For too long, the cottony little colony cat had hacked and coughed alone. Her caregivers grieved to see her struggle, as recurring infections ran her ragged. She was only getting worse, but she could not imagine things could get any better.
That is often the point in the story when the drop trap appears.
When you have staggered on the blurry border between suffering and survival for so long, you can’t dream bigger than your next breath. The very thought of “better” seems taunting and cruel. All you know is that your throat is sore from coughing, the sunbeams seem to scatter when you approach, and … oh! Something stinks to high heaven in that suspicious silver box.
Even with a respiratory infection clogging her nose, Malora caught a wondrous whiff that made her giddy as a kitten. She had heard of these “sardines,” but assumed they were a fantasy, like elves, or dwarves, or squeezy tubes that look like yogurt but actually contain liquid chicken.
As you and I know, all such things really do exist.
“Delicious” was about to be the downfall of despair. Slam! Malora was trapped. Malora was a Tabby’s Place cat. Malora was bound for better days.
Malora felt betrayed. But this is always the case when a dream picks you up off the ground without your permission.
That was 2021, and Malora’s feet have long since forgotten the feel of thorns and thistles. Rhinitis still wrinkles her nose, though daily medication subdues its flares. She has aged from five to ten, but sudden growth spurts turn her younger. Love has loosed the Great Unlearning.
It is slow work, debunking pessimism’s walls. A cat does not go from sickness and shadows to cartwheeling down the Suite E ramp in a tie-dyed tutu singing “How Are Things in Glockamora?” When you have learned to want nothing, “better” can sound like a conspiracy theory for ridiculous rutabagas in rose-colored glasses.
Fortunately, we have several of those at Tabby’s Place.
And they were all about to become Malora’s partners in crime.
We dare not explain the bonds between cats, links of love as sacred as prayer beads. Something mysterious and tender joins two souls, and the world is changed for the better.
But when it came to Malora, every goofball, space cowboy, and ridiculous rutabaga on the premises was infatuated.
Bing sang Bon Jovi’s greatest hits, and not just because he has the same haircut. Gopher dug deep inside his heart to give Malora his buried treasures. Rusty turned eighty percent brighter orange every time Malora met his gaze. Vinnie declared Malora’s crumpled ear more magnifico than a cannoli and enfolded her in a hero sandwich.
Meanwhile, Malora was mellowing around the most ridiculous rutabagas of all. Of course I am speaking of us taller turnips, the human kind.
We stood on our tiptoes, blinking love songs into Malora’s eyes while she watched us from the ramp. From her safe vantage point inside the tortellini of Vinnie’s tail, or within the fringe jacket of Bing’s bangs, Malora wondered if wonderful could really come true.
Feral fear was so familiar. Meanwhile, belly rubs seemed as preposterous as Hobbits, or talking toadstools, or cat food with giant visible neon yellow cheese nubbins.
As you and I know, all such things really do exist.
And soon, the cat who had written off warmth was wriggling for skritches, licking the fingers of people she loved.
Surely, it doesn’t get better than this?
We smaller mammals are always saying things like that.
It’s as though we are afraid to offend “better” by imagining “even better.”
But the only way to offend life is to expect too little of love. And, since life is love’s partner in crime, no offense is taken.
So, when Malora’s world faced one more downfall, love was just rolling up its sleeves.
Life in Suite E was better than anything Malora had imagined. Blankets covered the landscape. Poultry appeared like manna. Ridiculous rutabagas of two species were her personal smitten kittens. When she didn’t feel well, the tall rutabagas responded with annoying pills that made things better and usually involved additional poultry.
And the sunbeams were back.
Those rays that once scattered at Malora’s sight were steadfast now, pouring through the skylight and into the solarium. They competed to kiss her aging cheek and her cannoli ear. They reassured her that light outlasts fear. They rode into the day on birdsong and stayed for dinner. They came back every tomorrow.
Until the day they didn’t.
Surely this was it, the downfall. See? “Better” was a bluff all along. Crestfallen in her carrier, Malora watched Suite E fade from sight. She should have known she could not trust our soft fingers when they never brought chicken fingers. She should have known fear would not forgive her for breaking up with it five years ago. She should have–
—oh!
The sunbeams were smiling like seven-year-olds who just decorated the entire kitchen with homemade hearts. They filled orange window seats wide enough for three, four, even five rutabagas to bask in a cuddle puddle. There were cubbies as tall as emus and dinner dishes already glistening. (Rusty said it might be emu giblets, but Rusty’s grip on reality is sometimes rusty.)
This was Suite J.
This was Malora’s new room.
This was … better.
It gets better.
This is Tabby’s Place, and the best is yet to come.