You didn’t know why you were tagged. Nobody ever does.
But ever since you were just a jellybean of a kitten, you knew it, Tag.
You were set apart.
Why do some lives seem to flow from ease to ease, while others face dragons? Humans scramble for answers, but cats accept quests.
And so it happened that you were born outdoors, Tag. You had no name and no blanket. But all that mattered to you was that you were born. You accepted your own existence as proof that it was good to be here.
You did not hiss at heaven for the accidents of your birth. You held no grudge against cats in softer circumstances. Some were born to blankets and bisque, while you were tagged as a stray. You had few comforts, no collar, and one great calling: to live.
Like every kitten, you were embroidered with optimism and ridiculous self confidence. Joy jangled like a dog tag around your little black neck.
And even then, you were a “black swan,” Tag.
They use this term for individuals who defy expectations. It was once believed that all swans were white. But in 1697, black swans were discovered in Australia, proving that “impossible” is a word always spoken too soon.
Still, that tattered old tag tempts us when we get impatient for answers. “Impossible” feels easier than “unknown.” At least it spares us the risk of having our dreams clamped shut.
But to you, Tag, everything was open. Living outdoors, with no guarantee of your next meal, is still living. Free sunbeams filled your days. A feral cat may seem as common as a cobblestone, but you knew your worth. You were thoughtful and perfect. You wore your uniqueness lightly, as humble as a dainty onyx ring on a hardworking hand.
You didn’t know your life would narrow to one moment. Nobody ever does. You tagged in that morning with the ragged hope of those who have learned to survive.
But by nightfall, survival would be “impossible.”
In an instant, an accident outdoors left your jaw fractured and fused shut. What fear must have filled your cheeks as you realized you could not open your dainty, perfect mouth. It did not matter that you were hungry, or that you still had songs to sing. You battled your own body.
The heavy door of hope would not budge, its hinges as frozen as your jaw.
In such a moment, so many of us would dive into despair, assuming the universe has tagged us for pain. Self-pity is the saddest swan song: I am an exile from the land of the loved. I was hand-picked for hardship.
But the flip side of trouble’s tag is a new name.
The right people can read it. It is safe on their lips, the same place kisses come from. The right people can turn your tag around, because they know how it feels when everything goes wrong.
People who save strays know how it feels to be tagged. Like you, they were not born on the easy road. It is a lonesome quest to carry a soft heart everywhere you go.
But carrying kindness is strength training.
And when the time came, mercy had the muscle to carry you.
To be continued Thursday…