The rules were clearly delineated.
The recipe was printed legibly.
The results rebelled.
It would not appear there is anything rebellious about Rashida.
Rashida is a floral apron on a woman called “Meemaw.” Rashida is a hymn. Rashida lies awake worrying whether you’re getting enough riboflavin in your diet. Rashida is as soft as confectioner’s sugar.
But there is everything rebellious about Rashida.
Rashida is the dawn that lasts all day. Rashida is a giggle at her own corny joke. Rashida is real butter, without guilt. Rashida is the confident expectation of kindness in an insecure world.
In the eyes of the world, Rashida is a tuft of tragedy. I hear it in the sigh that slips out before people catch themselves. I introduce them to Rashida, and it escapes: “oh! Poor thing!”
They see a cat older than their children, shaved down and unsighted. Rashida’s sole eye is cloudy. She figure-eights their legs in ecstasy.
If I tell them she also lives with diabetes, their own eyes may water.
If I tell them Rashida is as strong as I aspire to be, they may wonder.
Rashida does not appear to be wearing a bulletproof vest. Her coat is milk chocolate, pebbled with little peaches. Her heart is close enough to hear.
But something protects the late-teen tortie. She is inoculated against impatience, fortified for forgiveness. She is unconcerned with unexpected results. She is unbroken by broken rules.
We, alas, are not Rashida.
We are aghast when life gets hard for the soft and sweet. We are beside ourselves when we have to step outside ourselves. We set our sights on the day and command it to behave.
When it obeys its own mystic vision instead, we hide our eyes and hope the future can’t see us.
Meanwhile, Rashida sees everything necessary.
She sees when someone enters the room, a swoosh of whooshing pants and sneaker-patter. She whoops in response, a high lonesome bluegrass meow that will not be denied. Soon enough, sure enough, you find yourself pressing your forehead into hers.
Her cries for affection yield to purrs that settle your heart rate.
She sees when a human being becomes a hummingbird, all aerobic anxiety. Rashida can hear the hertz of a bad morning, and she rushes in with all sixteen years of her life in one instant.
The “frail” cat knits her comfort into your sorrow, until your hearts will never be separate again.
She sees why the Tabby’s Place staff jabs her with insulin and shaves down her dreadlocks. She is the rare cat who can translate inconvenience into unconditional love.
She is rebellious against resentment. If she remembers the people whose red taillights left her alone and outdoors, she forgives.
She does not own a microscope or a telescope.
She is in this moment.
She sees the way she is seen.
Cats are insightful, and Rashida may exceed them all. She has heard the sighs. She has accepted that she exudes need. She has reviewed the regulations stating that an ancient cat with chronic illness should be pensive and small.
She has reserved the right to rebel.
She has reserved a table among the whooping and the wild-hearted.
She will preserve your faith that the best is yet to come, if you let her.
Old age is inevitable. Results may vary. I aspire to be rather like Rashida.