It’s St. Patrick’s Day, which means one thing.

It is time to celebrate Shaggy.

He’s no leprechaun, but he knows where to find gold. His roots are in the Garden State, not the Emerald Isle. His eyes are always smiling. Just don’t call him “lucky,” because he brings his own charms.

He also brings the entire world into springtime, year after year.

And this is why St. Patrick’s Day is synonymous with Shaggy.

Like the first feisty clover crackling through the ice, Shaggy is the persistence of life. That sounds lofty and poetic.

Shaggy would prefer to call it “zestbuckets.”

Every living creature is given buckets when they are born. The buckets are designed to transport zest from one year to the next. The buckets are meant to remain full at all times.

But buckets spring holes. Grief, and fear, and afternoons in waiting rooms all sap our springtime. We forget the daffodils and marshmallows, and the fact that we have not yet met everyone we will love.

We forget that we were made for zest. We leak.

Shaggy’s eyes leak, too, though he is not crying. Those gazing balls get goopy due to allergies and upper respiratory issues.

Yet Shaggy’s zestbuckets remain full. Shaggy thinks “Get Goopy” would be an excellent name for an all-bagpipe band. Shaggy knows he is here to prank gravity and leap through the air like a one-cat rainbow.

On paper, Shaggy is an “older cat.” But nothing interesting happens on paper, even if you add shamrock stickers. Far better to stick with flesh and fur, goop and all. That is where life lives. That is where Nirvana and Sorrel and Juel and all the strange and splendid humans live.

It is a full-time job, being fully alive.

Shaggy does not want any cat, person, or dandelion to feel taken for granted. This requires him to spend every waking hour celebrating in all directions. He sprints to the solarium to thank the sunbeams. He barrels back inside to head-bonk forlorn foreheads.

He keeps pouring out his zestbuckets on the crestfallen and winter-weary.

And while a pot of gold may be spent, Shaggy’s zestbuckets stay full.

It does not make sense, any more than a St. Patrick’s Day that lasts 365 days, only to start up again. But the more Shaggy gives, the more Shaggy has left to give.

Giddy and generous and gentle as clover, Shaggy is here to collect all the colors, then distribute them. He would not be Shaggy without his snurpy issues, his corny jokes, his enthusiasm, and his age.

There is sadness in his story. He doesn’t talk about it, but sometimes you can catch it in his eyes before he turns away. Shaggy has lost love, human and feline. Shaggy has been overlooked and underestimated.

Shaggy has never once been offered a bucket of cereal.

Shaggy has never once been defeated.

He is made of every stripe in the spectrum, from merry magenta to solemn cerulean. He is a one-cat rainbow, but he is not keeping it to himself.

He is St. Patrick’s Day, slaphappy and snuggling and counting on love, not luck. This is Shaggy’s holiday, and he intends to share.

Report to Suite E. Bring your zestbuckets. The cat with smiling eyes overflows.

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