If Mardi Gras is for lardy lap cats, Ash Wednesday is for those as soft as fog.
They are so much more than “grey cats.”
Call them silver linings and titanium cores, nimbus clouds and nimble comforters.
Call them diamond charms and stainless steel, mystics and moonbeams.
Most of all, call them Team Stardust, for they remind us who we are.
In the liturgical Christian tradition, Ash Wednesday kicks off Lent, the countdown to Easter. It is a season meant for preparing one’s heart and reaching towards the light.
It is so much more than giving up chocolate.
Cats are opposed to swearing off anything delicious (although, if hisses can be translated, clearly they are not opposed to swearing in general). But, they are made of the same stuff we are, even if they wear it more gracefully.
It is hard to hear Ash Wednesday’s refrain, “Remember that you were dust, and to dust you shall return,” without thinking of the precious, painful urns that surround us. Tiny gold nameplates announce whose ashes lay within. Grecca. Boobalah. Rose.
They were here, as wildly alive as comets. Now, they are gone, yet not gone. We live in the twilight between reunions.
We live, in other words, on a perpetual Ash Wednesday. But we have grey cats to get us through.
We have Betty, anointed with ash. Her unique markings make it look as though she has just come from an Ash Wednesday service. Adopted as a kitten, adored to the utmost, bereaved at fifteen, stalked by cancer, Betty has tasted the bitter and the sweet.
At seventeen, she is serene in the space between kittenhood and eternity. Sunlight, starlight, and the kisses of a hundred volunteers decorate her face in her window seat at Tabby’s Place. She is braver than all of us combined, but also more lighthearted. Perhaps these traits are not unrelated.
We have Willow, found in the dust at four weeks of age. Born paralyzed, she has never walked upright. Loved without limit, she has never laid down in defeat.
She does battle against cardboard, and Corduroy, and the clanging chatter of fear. She is a dervish of dignity, imperial and often aerial, no matter how loud the laws of physics protest. If Peabody can pole vault onto towers and trees without the use of his back legs, Willow will aim for the stars, or at least the tallest cubby.
She could have died out there, alone. Instead, she reminds us we are still alive, so we had better act like it.
We have Ruchi, the ragamuffin, made of sweet silver streusel. He has never been mean, not one moment of his life. There is not a streak of snark between his stripes.
He came to us already old, on the far side of a dog attack. Now, he spends his days feeling young, grinning out from behind one good eye. Diabetes is an opportunity, not a tragedy. Insulin injections come with free kisses. Ruchi does not remember forgiving the past, only receiving a future.
He will let you hold him for as long as you like, no matter who you are.
We have Theodosia, with the face of a storybook bunny and the pride of a conquering queen. Under five pounds, she would fit in your bicycle basket, but she is too large for this world. (This is the reason the universe is continually expanding. Do not tell the physicists.)
We do not know her age, only that it exceeds that of both stars and dust. We do not know how she lost 98% of her tail, only that the remaining 2% could rule the world.
We do not know how we ever lived without her, only that we are relieved she is here, healing us even when she is asleep under her heating pad.
We have Trent, the glamour kangaroo. He is equal parts Napoleon and Labyrinth-era David Bowie, and he hops because he can. Trent can smell pity from across the Lobby — “ohhhhh, that poor cat with the bent arm!” — but he can silence it with one dramatic hair toss.
If you pet him, he feels like feathers but will remind you that birds were once dinosaurs. If you pet him, your day will improve by 500%.
We have Rubiks, who has solved the puzzle of purpose. He was planted on this planet to be like the dandelion that grows through the grey asphalt.
From an overcrowded colony of five dozen cats, he emerged as the placid protector. If another cat’s whisker is out of joint, Rubiks will huddle up to comfort them. He keeps the shy cats’ secrets, and the peace.
His vocation is “friend,” which is the highest office under the stars.
We have Regina, the revelation in high fashion. She collects rebirths like shoes.
The world says that feline leukemia virus (FeLV) and paraplegia are a sad story. Regina says the world is insufficiently creative. That double dose of dust is what sprinkled her into Tabby’s Place. So-called doom was really just a door.
She is not dressed in sackcloth and ashes. She glides swanlike in her “scoot skirts,” custom couture to protect her knees from bruising and give her extra speed. She is not missing a moment.
We have Cornbread, the pigeon-grey curmudgeon with a heart as gold as butter. He is gentle and good, the timid toast of the town. We do not need to touch him to know he is soft.
Cats constellate around him like a sun that would never burn anyone. Few people can pet him. All Tabby’s Place people are his people. He is so much more than a “shy, FIV+ cat.”
They are so much more than grey cats.
They are reaching towards the light.
And every time we love them, we are closer to Easter than before.