Yes, Allen, I’m afraid it’s true.
There are people who will define you by the dust on your coat and the dirt under your claws.
Fret not. These people are not your pals.
Your pals will not deny that you are old. If we spackle reality, all we get is a faceless wall.
Yes, Allen, you have achieved seniority. You were here when pterodactyls split the sky with raucous songs. You were here when the first Good Burger movie came out. You were here when pants were invented.
(I am, of course, exaggerating. You were not yet here when Good Burger came out. That’s silly.)
You are extremely old.
And if we focus on that, we prove that we are extremely dull.
Far better to conspire with the clouds in your eyes. You wandered for too long under a numb sun.
Now you assert your right to feel everything.
There is a smile that does not stray from your gaze. Your matte coat ripples with a sense of humor. You live as one who knows that your tragedy cartwheeled into a comedy, and only one is left standing.
You are grateful. And if we focus on that, we prove that we are your pals.
Your pals will not deny that life bites. Life does not discriminate between warlords, mosquitoes, and gentle tuxedo cats. Clock enough sunsets, and you will bear some teeth marks and grief marks.
Allen, you were gnawed by those lonely years. But you rumble with forgiveness. Time only runs in one direction, so you packed your trucks with hope.
You arrived with exactly four teeth, un-neutered and un-doted-upon. And if we focus on that, we will confuse you.
But you are too busy coming up with gentle, gentle jokes.
Were you a man, you would be the guy making Play-Doh effigies of the staff and hiding them in our desks: neon orange for Jonathan, safety yellow for the vet team. You would announce in the middle of a Board meeting that you just realized the word “riboflavin” is hilarious. You would write sonnets about squeeze-tuna and get them published in The Paris Review.
Fortunately, you are not a man.
You are an ancient cat, old as the stars and still excited for treats shaped like hearts and moons. You see yourself seen by our smitten eyes, and you get happy, and you keep getting happier. This is the intended purpose of “aging,” after all.
Allen, I can’t imagine you forget the years you were invisible. You are far too brilliant for that. Were you a man, you would read Tolstoy over breakfast and study spiral galaxies on your day off. You would save your pension pennies for courses in Positive Psychology and Finnish.
But you are too brilliant to be blinded by grievance. The trucks will arrive on time, heavy with happiness.
We had to remove your sad string quartet of teeth, but now you smile pain-free. We had to treat you for an aggressive upper respiratory infection, a fever with its own penthouse and personality, but now you know the meaning of warmth.
There is just one thing I need to know from you.
Allen, sweet Allen, old Allen, ageless Allen, will you really let us be your pals?
Can it be that a cat of complete kindness sees something worthy in us?
Allen, you know what you are getting into.
We are a prickly species, prone to puncture each other’s balloons. We focus on flaws because we are scared of our own.
We forget that we were put here to be pals. We forget the pleasures of cheddar, and head bonks, and saying the word “riboflavin” five times fast.
Our species left you lonely once. Our species will never grasp your fullness in this lifetime.
Still, you have chosen us for the mission of pallin’ with Allen.
You have wrenched our hearts in the direction of hope, and there’s nothing in the tool box that can change them back.
You might say you are making us older, and turning our world more toothless.
All we might say in response is “thank you.”