In the literary realm, “ekphrastic” refers to poetry inspired by a visual image.
In the Tabby’s Place realm, “ekphrastic” refers to everything we do at all times.
I see your raised hand. Yes? No. That is not a typo.
Yes, “ecstatic” also refers to everything we do at all times. And in autumn, one might add “electrostatic.” (Raise your hand again if you accidentally shocked your favorite cat when you reached out to pet her this morning. Raise your hand again if you apologized. Good human.)
But today we are speaking intentionally of ekphrastic cats.
We are speaking between flaky bites, because this autumn has awarded us the strudel of the soul. Although most cats disassemble pastry to access the cream cheese within, one Puff is perfectly content to be our baklava, our napoleon, and our maple-sweet muse.
This is particularly gracious when you consider that Puff has been frosted by too much turnover. At ten, she should be the shining centerpiece of some smitten artist. Instead, she has been infected and misdirected.
When she was yet a dab of new paint on the palette, Puff was licked by the wrong brush. Some well-meaning feline groomed or canoodled or shared his breakfast with our Puff. A few watercolor drips of saliva later, and our girl was stained with feline leukemia virus (FeLV).
Galleries hung up on her. Breakfast bistros hastily spun their signs from OUI to NON. Puff’s long-awaited adopters shook their heads, took her portrait down, and returned her to the public shelter.
Puff’s only hope was the ecstasy of ekphrastic poets.
We will accept many accusations at Tabby’s Place. Our per capita consumption of Veggie Straws is excessive. Our inability to stop singing to cats, even when asked repeatedly by cats, is exhausting. Our art is endlessly ekphrastic.
We see a painting in blues and greys, and we erupt in shouts of red, orange, and gold.
We see a statue frozen in sad, and we split open in stanzas of welcome.
We see an aging Puff with a daunting disease, and we write thank-you letters to the mystery bakery that brought her here.
We are impossibly inspired by this cat caught between sorrow and her own bone marrow. The very sight of Puff turned all our prose to poetry. Here was a lady long in hairs and short on luck. Lesser souls would turn dry as a biscuit, cursing the very idea of inspiration. Poets and prophets would stumble on so much sadness, smashing their inkwells and shrink-wrapping their trust.
But Puff would keep writing.
I see your raised hand. Yes? No. Puff does not know cursive.
Yes, cats can be writers. Without a pen or a fear, Puff writes by speaking. She speaks, shouts, sings, mewls maple syrup all over the very species that once shunned her. (The public shelter was not being poetic when they called her “very vocal.”) She yammers and blithers in sonnets and ghazals. She does the bravest thing that grief can never conquer.
She keeps on communicating, believing she will be heard.
And at Tabby’s Place, where everything we do is ekphrastic, the answer is, yes, ecstatic.
The loveliest cat in Quinn’s Corner is lifted in arms that adore every fiber of her shag. The portrait of a lady is proclaimed “perfect” by people festooned with flaws (which is to say: people). The cat whose luck expired has lived to inspire greatness.
The Pushcarts and Pulitzers may have their sharp criteria, but this is no puff piece. Greatness goes all the way down to the bone marrow, where “love” meets “no” and finds no contest. Sweetness washes the salt from old wounds. A sunny earth-heaven with orange window seats enthrones an old cat made new.
It will never cease to be shocking.
We will never stop blowing dandelions and expecting great things from puffballs.
And you, donor-poets, will never cease to be the secret sauce of the whole grace-pastry.