If you’re looking to wrap up a gift for Aunt Mafalda, use tape.

If you want to hide a cat’s pill, cheese makes a fine adhesive.

But if it’s a flexible hold you need, rely on Velcro.

We generally meet cats on screen before they set foot in the building. If this sounds like online dating, you are not far from the truth. Cats are facts, affixed to a picture of a face. It is all rather two-dimensional.

If animal control tells us that Grey Domestic Medium-Hair has elevated blood glucose, the cat becomes The New Diabetic. The label is on … unless the label is Velcro.

We are a little fidgety about labels at Tabby’s Place. We like to peel them off and see what’s underneath. A cat is not just his diagnosis. A life is not just its limits. The New Diabetic may also be an aerialist, a belly-rub expert, the preeminent authority on forgiveness … or a cat.

And “cat” is the only label that deserves to stick.

In the case of the Grey Domestic Medium-Hair, the label of “diabetic” was loosely affixed. No sooner had we named him, than we realized our new friend Velcro had a few things to say about his profile.

His blood glucose was normal. His blood glucose was normal again. His blood glucose persevered in being normal.

But Velcro was not “normal.”

Velcro is from another dimension, where nobody gets flattened to two dimensions.

Velcro is capable of loving with centripetal and centrifugal force simultaneously.

Velcro is so affectionate, space and time stop what they are doing to crouch down and catch a glimpse.

Velcro generates so many metric tons of tenderness, all the villains on Earth have resolved to be good.

Velcro is every curd of kindness you ever hoped existed, but were too afraid to tell anyone.

“Diabetic” is not the first or thousandth noun for such a cat as this. But neither is “Velcro.” More on that in a moment.

First, someone may ask the reasonable question: couldn’t Velcro have beaten the ‘betes?

I shall answer you: no, and the correct spelling is “beetus.”

Feline diabetes is actually a lot like Velcro. The need for insulin can be “removed” if a cat goes into remission. The daily routine of injections gets peeled off. But the sticky side sticks around. A cat with a petulant pancreas will always need a special diet. It is possible his blood glucose may pole vault again, without explanation or apology.

Velcro has not beaten the ‘beetus, but Velcro has still won.

When you forgive your own body, you become the preeminent authority on forgiveness. And when you give your entire body, from your Wilford Brimley whiskers to your smoky quartz stripes, to the task of love, you become larger than any label.

Even “Velcro.”

You have perhaps met a cat named Velcro before. The name attaches to cats who, well, attach. With apologies to all the other Velcros, our Velcro is the single sweetest, snuggliest sugar bug ever to fill a lap.

But Velcro is alive, not stuck.

Velcro walks, runs, plays, and pontificates. Velcro explores, exults, and enthuses. Velcro auditions lap after lap so he can confirm that they are all, in fact, the best lap. Velcro is not glued in place like a diorama, or pinned like some preserved butterfly.

Velcro is a cat in full.

Stick around Velcro, and you just might get a new name of your own. Velcro scrawls love letters over everyone’s labels until they read something else entirely.

Do not expect to remain The Neurotic, or She Who Yammers, or The Cottage Cheese Guy after a visit with Velcro. (I can neither confirm nor deny that I am acquainted with a human man known as The Cottage Cheese Guy.)

Your comfortable confines are not safe with a cat who is more than The New Diabetic.

Fear not. To be flexible is to become more feline, and that’s a label we can all live with.

But there’s one last label here. Perhaps you’ve already guessed it?

It’s “Adopted.” It’s Velcro’s newest title. And this one is going to stick.

More Blog Posts