Was it a good day?
The cayenne stray died. The wary child chose silence. The meaty beast bared some, not all.
Was it a good day?
Tabby’s Place knows no beige days. The flattest oat cake of a Thursday stretches to a thousand lives, stories jostling like flying saucers under the ozone of hours. We are too breathless with laughter or tears to ask what we had to show for the day.
But some days show their teeth.
We probably look, to the world, like a grandfather gumming his oatmeal. They pat us on the head and put Hello Kitty band-aids on our bleeding heart, on their way to the ways of the world.
People in wingtips and brooches were making deals and taking charge while we stumbled into an orange puddle. The cat was face-down on the borderland of no return. Animal Control knows that our hearts are out of control, so they brought us what remained of breath and body.
Was it a good day? Bones and sinew rattled together. Death uncoiled. Spice filled the stray’s cheeks, and he rose to his feet. Denise, Jae, Jess, and Carolyn threaded the hour with mercy.
The cat without hope became a cat with a name, PacMan gobbling wet food under a new crown. The forgotten was a prince. The fading was our favorite.
Text messages flew like pennants. “PacMan is eating!” “PacMan is alert!” “PacMan can’t stop making muffins!” “PacMan is going to the emergency vet!”
Was it a good day? PacMan died an hour after we met him. We will never know exactly what was wrong, only that he departed knowing some bad days are full of right.
People with alerts and agendas managed budgets and expectations while we asked very little. The cherub was quiet, a black-and-white cookie locked tight in her jar.
Magda knows that no one will scale the solarium ladder like a squirrel, so she eases into her aerie. She watches. She erases answers from the board. She exudes pleasure if we deny ourselves the pleasure of her company.
Was it a good day? None could pet her, this mystical plumpkin with fat secrets. Magda is inscrutable, untouchable, the feline equivalent of peace in the Middle East or a zero-calorie cheesecake.
But the beautiful child felt her worth. In her many months at Tabby’s Place, Magda has pawned angst for melody, accepting cookies and expecting our full acceptance. She makes up her own fairytales in the solarium. She need not crumble into the muffin cup of someone else’s story.
Was it a good day? Magda is under no obligation to become “adoptable.” Magda is under no dangling sword. Magda is under the canopy of complete compassion.
People with places to be and abs to crunch were crushing it while we stoked our schoolyard crush. The nugget was all-natural, lardy stripes and lordly spirit. Chicken Nugget knows that no one will eat him, so he crept out from the coop.
Was it a good day? The New York Times will not report on the great unveiling. The Washington Post will reject my press release detailing the secret sworls of Chicken Nugget’s belly, the hearty breading that says “my heart is home.”
Chicken Nugget is comfortable, a dewy new feeling for a longtime chef of fear. Beyond the cubby, the sun tells jokes to his stripes. In sight of the light, little seeds grow into something feasty. In the sight of Jae, our little chicken allows a lot of loving.
Was it a good day? The nugget remains diabetic and only intermittently huggable. The meaning of our work is messier and meatier than we see. We hold plans loosely. We stand in the thunderstorm and get drenched.
Tabby’s Place bears witness to love. We succeed. We “fail.”
We cannot say that every day is good.
We can promise that no day will be wasted.
Somewhere on the ribbon of time the entry is made: PacMan is known and loved, he mattered. Tabby’s Place wrote him down for their special corner of The Rainbow Bridge. That is priceless. Every day Tabby’s Place makes a difference.
You gave PacMan the love he needed to know in his last hours. You cared with all your might. He passed with dignity and Love. That is most important.