It is a lesson most of us learn by twelve.
We don’t always feel like Priority People.
Priority People have a natural immunity to frizz.
Priority People do not maintain a downy layer of cat hair on their priority pants.
No Priority Person has ever missed Prom in favor of watching The Hobbit with their grandpa.
But there’s one thing better than being Priority People.
Prioritizing people. Including cats.
At Tabby’s Place, every cat is a priority. There is a 115-way tie for Most Significant Cat.
They are small enough to fit through the solarium tube and large enough to mandate upgrades to the universe. They are egos wrapped in velvet. They are the union of eccentricity and empathy. They jostle at the top of the podium to sing their own anthems.
Except the ones who hide under the bleachers and fear the music.
Those are precisely the “people” we prioritize.
They are the littlest, without regard to physical size.
They are the palest, whatever their coat color.
Every cat has a host of infatuated volunteers, but this fearful federation gets the one-on-one treatment. Cats who are intimidated by atoms are enrolled in our Befriending Fearful Felines (B.F.F.) program, tied to gentle people like grappling hooks of grace.
Every cat is adored, but the anxious are enthroned in our schedule.
Every cat gets attention, but the weary and worried get aircraft carriers of the stuff.
They are our priority, precisely because they are peculiar.
They are Magda, the concerned cupcake of Solarium E. She is unsure about love, so we send her volunteers whose gentleness could settle a tsunami. She nests at the top of the ramp, so angels in blue jeans put her at the top of their to-do list.
They are Checkers, whose cherub cheeks shudder all the pieces off the board. He plays when he thinks no one sees, so we assign him heroes whose eyes are kind. He is the ultimate wallflower, so we pair him with sunflowers disguised as people. He needs time, so we send him sweethearts who take off their watches in his company.
They are Bing and Malora, the lovers who wonder if it is them against the world. They choose higher ground, so we match them with a volunteer who would climb mountains. They tremble at human touch, so we send them a legend who speaks fluent feline.
They are Bella, a wary heart in black-and-white silk. She has been angry, so she has a friend to absorb her anguish. She is perplexed, so she has a companion who offers presence, not answers. She has felt unworthy, so she has a standing date with reassurance.
They are the scared, the small. They do not go viral. Visitors may never see them. They may never bask belly-up in laps or grace the calendar cover.
They will never cease to be our priority.
We hope they know.
None of us will ever cease to be twelve years old, and the sooner we learn, the lovelier our lives.
Even the frizzless among us, with no Goldfish crumbs on their chins and no Weird Al playlists on their computers, will find themselves small, sometime or another.
The sound of the vacuum, the garbage truck, or the word “no” will render us all little and lost, if only for a moment.
So we’ll keep singing, scheduling, and shimmying on our bellies for the small.
The arithmetic is sturdy.
If everyone puts the littlest one first, everyone gets to be the Precious People.
That’s our priority around here.