We tend to think that cats are simple.

Cats note this on their yellow legal pads, nod at one another, and confirm: humans are precious simpletons.

Rusty finds us particularly adorable.

We imagine that cats like Rusty want very little from life. A secret identity as Luigi Bermuda, International Importer of Mozzarella, perhaps, or to occupy every seat on the Board of Directors at Arby’s.

Food and water, affection or respectful distance, cool nights and warm days, unbroken communion with the moon.

But what if all of the above adds up to extravagance?

What if the simple thing cats want is really the most opulent, expensive, outrageous thing under heaven?

Rusty does not appear to be an exorbitant cat. Neither merchant prince nor captain of industry, the humble stray with the wheezy lungs is as earthy as his name.

But we would be wrong to nail down Rusty’s reputation.

Dressed in the dungarees of a rumpled old man, Rusty was upper-crust expectation and childlike hope. With nothing to offer but his entire self, he readied himself to receive the entire world.

In the earth science of Rusty, a world has key components. There are long peninsulas of patience, sidling up to a sea of squeeze-chicken. Continents of cooing emit an atmosphere of affection. Mountainous mercies are fringed with forests of fleece. Medical care is the mighty wind that a cat can’t see, but he knows when its gentle touch has been there.

And at the molten core that keeps the axis turning: unconditional love.

There was an ulcer under Rusty’s tongue, and half-pages of unfinished stories under his belt. But here he was, and here we were, and he fully expected to be fully accepted in his full Rust.

He would not be disappointed.

Drew was the first to drown in Rusty’s orange sea, declaring him the sunrise itself. Her smittenness split the night, her patience the portal to his earliest affections.

Our vet team tendered their own love offerings, treating Rusty’s respiratory issues and tongue troubles, finding themselves treated to true friendship in return.

Soon we were all staggering with heady happiness, thoroughly rusted and gold-dusted by the marmalade minstrel who knew his own song.

Now the only trouble is finding your place in the queue to kiss that celestial face.

Rusty had the audacity to expect love.

Rusty had the simplicity to trust love.

Rusty is reminding us that it’s the bravest thing in any world to believe in love, and love loves the believer.

When I look around Tabby’s Place, I see this story repeated in every suite.

There’s not a cat alive — not the elegant or the urchins, not the purring or the persnickety — who questions her worth.

They come to us from hopeless situations, with autoimmune diseases that scare adopters and hollers that scare six-winged seraphs. They come with personalities as mottled as our own, tumbleweeds and honeyed hearts and switchblade-wielding swashbucklers and empaths. They have survived terrible conditions.

They are ready to be unconditionally loved.

They are banking on being treasured exactly as they are.

They are outrageous enough to expect precisely this.

And whether that translates into kisses or lobster bisque or the slow blink that says “it is good that you are here,” the extravagance is granted.

Perhaps cats don’t want too much.

Perhaps humans want too little.

Perhaps Rusty can remind us what makes the world go ’round.

Breaking news: Rusty is going to his forever home today. THIS IS THE DAY. Oh wondrous creatures, we get to witness an embarrassment of miracles, do we not?

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