At fifty-five miles an hour, you would scarcely see her.
Was that a cat, or someone’s discarded sweatshirt?
Was there breath in that bundle, or just speckles and bones?
The world drives too fast.
Only love is slow enough to see the sparkle.
Amaryllis was not iridescent.
Graceful orange constellations had once shimmered against black velvet. But now the sky closed in, and the sun was closed for business.
The tortie’s chocolate-cherry coat had been sweet camouflage in her stray days. But a car need not see you to speed off with your future.
There would be no brake on the worst day of Amaryllis’ life. Just agony.
“Just” is one of those words that some kitten chewed out of the Tabby’s Place dictionary. We cock our heads at the words, “just a cat.” We can’t make heads or tails of the assessment that some needs are “just too much.”
We don’t understand the alphabet when someone says “she’s just a stray.”
Amaryllis had no name and no family: only catastrophic injuries and stratospheric medical bills.
Amaryllis had everything she needed to become a Tabby’s Place cat: she had need, and she was a cat. She was in a “hopeless situation.”
We don’t believe in those.
If “just” is suspect, and “hopeless” is preposterous, “reasonable” stands on rocky ground. We adored Amaryllis before she gave us any “reason.” We swaddled her with intensive care and immense promises before we had “reasonable” hope of her recovery.
We gave her a name that made no sense at fifty-five miles an hour. She was just a stray. She could not bring anything to the table but her little broken body.
She did not sparkle.
So we named her “Amaryllis.”
We named her for the flower that blooms in winter, standing taller than poinsettias and hollies. The amaryllis is proud and innocent at once, dignified by determination. The Victorians gave each other amaryllises to celebrate hard-won achievements.
Life gave Tabby’s Place an Amaryllis with the ultimate achievement: she imagined the world could still be kind.
Too shattered to stand, she rose above her pain. She looked us in the eye. She asked hard questions. Would we keep the promise she dared to believe was true?
The word “amaryllis” means “to sparkle.”
The cat Amaryllis meant to survive.
The work of love is to slow down long enough to see each other, and then to see each other through.
Like most of our “Linda Fund cats,” Amaryllis was not out of the woods when we met. Only time and intensive, expensive care would tell if she could outlive her internal injuries, and how many surgeries might be needed to put her back together.
Love forfeits any insurance policy against grief.
We knew we were getting ourselves into it all over again.
But somewhere, beneath her broken stars, Amaryllis knew.
Amaryllis lost a leg, but it was not essential. She lost the bohemian schedule of a stray cat, but the point of wandering is to find a home.
She learned that people are capable of pressing “pause” on the merciless rush of hours.
She gained a family, and a footing in the good soil of grace.
She gained a name, and a place in the Tabby’s Place constellation.
She gained the honor of being the 2024 Linda Fund poster cat, although that does not concern her. When you know you sparkle, you don’t need to know who knows.
When you know you are loved, everything else is a footnote.
As Amaryllis dances on three remaining feet, we hope you will slow down and let her sparkle warm your face.
Feel the sun of second chances.
Feel your heart beating for the ones who need you.
Your donation to the Linda Fund is a promise with great power. Your gift will be doubled. Your gift will be transformed into emergency care for a cat in crisis. Your gift will be here, ready, when the next Amaryllis arrives.
We can do this, Tabby’s Place family.
May love be our greatest achievement.
And may this be our greatest P.S.: Amaryllis is now blooming in a forever home of her own. Is anything too great for love?