Humans believe there are no stupid questions.
Cats want to believe, but then they hear us ask, “is the world ready for plant-based octopus?”
“What is the center of the universe?”
And, “why has nobody adopted Sammy?”
The answers to the above are “no,” “Gator,” and “your question is invalid.”
Sammy would never say such a thing, of course.
Sammy is a chocolate-orange truffle on a mission to make your world sweet. If you write a poem about vinyl siding and Doritos, Sammy will call it a masterpiece and insist you send it to The Paris Review.
If you lose your job, Sammy will write you a letter of reference and promise the best is yet to come.
If you attempt to cut your own bangs and end up looking like you attempted to cut your own bangs, Sammy will congratulate you on looking like Checkers.
Sammy was placed upon this earth to plant flowers in people’s lives. If you are feeling like scorched earth, spend ten minutes with Sammy. You will leave Suite G gleaming like a gladiola. Joy will radiate from your face like sunflower petals. You just might “Sammy” someone else.
Sammy was given a heart so big, she is a roving sanctuary for every creature. She is the den mother to the frat boys of Quinn’s Corner, the only cat kind enough to warm their warthog hearts.
She is a canopy for all the rumpled and bewildered, which should cover all of us. The newest friend is as welcome as the most familiar. Sammy’s love is indiscriminate, without walls.
Sammy’s green eyes are incapable of seeing the unspectacular in anyone.
Test me on this if you like. Pile your hair on top of your head like a radish. Wear the holey, hideous sweatpants of shame. Visit Suite G on the day you have hurt your mother’s feelings, insulted the ice cream man, and disappointed your boss.
Sammy will greet you as a fresh revelation of mercy.
Sammy will sun herself in your unconquerable light.
Sammy will daintily defeat even the most leathery self-loathing.
Sammy did not choose to be infected with feline leukemia virus (FeLV), but she is not complaining. Sammy is the kind of cat who would rather it happen to her than someone else. Sammy is the kind of cat whose kindness is quietly righting the world’s wrongs, morning by morning.
Sammy is the kind of cat who should have been adopted a hundred times by now.
Why has nobody adopted Sammy?
The question is invalid.
The question is preposterous, because Sammy has a surplus of answers.
She has Oram and Tucker, the chuckleheads of great cheer. She has sunrises that are never the same twice, bouncing around the walls of her orange window box. She has no walls around her heart. She has not yet met everyone who she will love in this life, and that thought makes her gallop orange-chocolate kisses around the room.
She has Tabby’s Place, and Tabby’s Place has her.
Sammy is infatuated with life, which means she is always home.
Life is infatuated with Sammy, which means she has already been adopted.
Sammy’s person will come, and we will be the smitten stadium cheering until we’re hoarse. But Sammy is not waiting, and Sammy is not asking questions.
The answers are exquisite and abundant. The center of the universe is right here.
PS: Breaking news: the center of the universe has shifted. That’s correct. Shortly after I wrote this blog, the universe conspired to make it irrelevant. SAMMY HAS JUST BEEN ADOPTED. Worth the wait? Immeasurably.