Our “adoptable cats” page is like a dating site, minus the treachery, plus extra shirtless photos.
Steven is not trying to convince you he still fits into his high school pants.
Angelo did not use an app to bathe his face in golden light.
Betty has no interest in your believing she is only eight.
Everyone is naked, all the time.
Still, there is a starkness to the headline: “Steven. Fifteen years, male.”
Steven has outlived most sedans. He has ignored four presidential administrations. He has known only kindness, so he does not know the quick calculus of online dating.
“Steven. Fifteen years, male.”
It means his kidneys and thyroid are at risk of acting sophomoric. It means his hair is a little rougher and his tale is a tad knottier. It means his needs can only get more extensive and expensive. It means he needs help figuring out his new remote control, and he sends emails in ALL CAPS.
It means many adopters will click, “next.”
“Steven. Fifteen years, male.”
We will not speak of what it might mean on the street, or in the public shelter. Age is an unforgiving hourglass when you need to hunt your dinner and no one will watch Law and Order reruns with you. Fifteen is far too “unadoptable” when space is at a premium.
“Steven. Fifteen years, male.”
Tabby’s Place dots the “i’s” in hearts and daisies. This 12,000 square foot love nest will not fall from time’s tree. We high-five years
Even when they number five times three. Even when needs gnaw tiny tooth marks in the calendar. Even when teeth fall out.
When everyone is naked, all the time, no one wastes time hiding. 
That time is better spent administering fluids, coaxing dried-fig kidneys back to life while singing Neil Diamond songs. That time is better spent brushing a rough coat until an old cat feels handsome. That time is better spent building constellations from star-shaped turkey nuggets until an old cat feels his worth.
When everyone has already been chosen, no one wastes time “dating.” Adoption may or may not happen. The most important thing has already happened. Love has claimed a cat, and its return rate is zero percent.
“Steven. Fifteen years, male.”
We tell him he is an orange fox, a marmalade George Clooney with Redford vibes. He is old enough to laugh as long as he likes. He knows that “love” has nothing to do with “handsome.” To love is not to admire.
To love is to remember.
We forget many things at Tabby’s Place. We forget to fill the Keurig. We forget who has decided they will no longer eat pate, and who will report us to Jonathan if we give them the wrong savory shreds.
We forget that there are unsavory characters out there, since there is so much sturdy love in here. We forget our own names when grief makes us very old and very young all at once.
But we remember the seniors.
We remember the touchstones rubbed smooth by time.
We remember that we are rich to have an audience with these ancients.
We remember that it is love’s honor to meet their needs.
“Steven. Fifteen years, male.”
He does not know that the masses choose silky calicos and zestful kittens, closing the window on his weathered face.
He would not mind. He has the luxury of forgetting that age exists. He is married to a sanctuary where every day is as promising as a first date, except the promise is guaranteed.
He is exactly the right age.
He is looking forward to sixteen.
He will have everything he needs, whatever he needs.
And now you understand why Tabby’s Place needs you.
Remember the seniors. It sounds so simple. It is love’s revolution. It is why we are given time.
Steven. I have loved you since you first appeared at Tabby’s Place. I know you were hand raised and bottle fed. I remember when you made a hole in the lining of the couch and hid until your special someone called your name. Tabby’s Place knows I love you. In my heart you are mine. That will never change. Just so everyone knows – I will always love you, Steven.