There are concepts that get a bad rap from those who can’t keep the beat.
Nog.
Mincemeat.
Innocence.
Then there are creatures composed of rhythm. They are liquid music, Earth’s secret heartbeat. They live on the edge of rum-pa-pum-possibility. They are the Tao of curiosity.
They are willing to take chances with barmy yellow beverages and beef-dappled pastry. They are willing to be underestimated.
They are 99.9% feline. And in the 99.9th percentile of their powers is one Oswald Rosenberg.
If you were not a Tabby’s Place person, you would not assign Oswald the adjective “powerful.” A white chocolate cat with a worried cap of nutmeg, our snuffly stray arrived feeling small.
If you were not a Tabby’s Place person, you would not know that “powerful” and “small” are a potent pair. Anxiety and excitement are the atrium and ventricle of a hero’s heart.
Behind those noggy sinuses and foggy memories was a cat of valor.
He found rhythm in stoops and sidewalks, catching the cadence of kindness everywhere he could. A merciful metronome rocked his days, as lyrical strangers looked out for him.
But the life of an abandoned cat changes key constantly. He tried to forget the earworm of uncertainty, sizzling like a snare of promises not kept. He tried to sing over the sickness screeching through his sinuses. Angel voices arrived. All the strumming and drumming delivered him to Tabby’s Place.
If you were not a cat of courage, you would not listen to your life. You would foreclose on meaning and plug your ears against melody. If everything was uncertain, nothing was worth one beat of your heart.
If you were not a cat of courage, you would be very, very old. Such is the fate chosen by those who choose self-protection. They appear adult, astute, prudent, powerful.
But Oswald, anxious and small, is enormous with innocence.
Oswald, hungry and sniffling, heard a hero’s welcome.
Oswald was a Tabby’s Place cat, treasured on impact.
Oswald was wise and ridiculous enough to trust again. “Wise” and “ridiculous,” written into the same sheet music, have saved the world no fewer than seven times.
This does not mean the rhythm has been smooth. Love’s river is filled with rocks, and they roll. There are days when Oswald hides and hisses and days when he dares. There are hours when the cage door is open, but the cat of courage chooses confinement.
But there are soaring crescendos where Oswald knows. He is, as Jae put it, “sweet once he knows your a friend.” He is sturdy once he knows we are staying. He is strong enough to be silly when he knows he is safe enough to be small.
He came trembling, which is 99.9% of wisdom. He had been close enough to “out of time” that he had no desire to keep time with cool and caution. This frees him to be innocent, ageless, incurably new.
New as breakfast, gratuitous gravy.
New as fingertips, those neck-skritching kindness nubbins.
New as original songs, affection eruptions from the long-legged and the lovestruck.
New as a cat who will never grow old, because he hears the beat.
Oswald is astute enough to remain astonished. This is not the cure for anxiety, but its flower in the midst of winter. Everything is a little loud and fast, and sometimes the blues and the bluegrass fill his eyes with worry and water. Songs end, but cats drum on. Just when we think Oswald has crossed the bridge to total trust, he patters back to the chorus, the questions, the infancy of this odyssey.
If you were not a Tabby’s Place person, you might drop the rhythm.
But here where love holds the baton, we keep the beat. Correction: it keeps us.
So we’ll keep our rum-pa-pums on the edge of our seats. We’ll swig the nog of today and mince the mysteries of tomorrow. We’ll stay innocent as Oswald. We might infuriate the world. Or we just might save it.