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That thing we cannot do

That thing we cannot do

We will do almost anything for our cats at Tabby’s Place.

We will lay on the linoleum like earthworms to blink reassurance into their eyes.

We will administer flotillas of squeeze-tuna.

We will drive through the night to the emergency vet, regardless of cost.

If they rise up and demand yak mousse from one specific cul-de-sac in Mongolia, we will find a way to obtain it.

But there is one thing we can never do for cats at Tabby’s Place.

Bing and Lily

Sometimes, they wish we would do the thing we cannot do.

Lily sends us formal requests, which she writes using a quill made from Bing‘s ten-inch tail hairs. Magda submits op-eds to Spilled Kibble, the feline-language Tabby’s Place newspaper, every week. Bruno has subpoenaed Lin-Manuel Miranda to confirm that the song “We Don’t Talk About Bruno” is legally binding.

It is no use. We cannot do what they are asking us to do.

It doesn’t help if we tell them we can’t even do this thing for each other. They already know that we will do things for them that we don’t do for each other. You let me know the next time you permit a human to wake you up by licking your eyelids. On second thought, don’t let me know.

Anyway. The shy cats’ request has been denied, doodled on with magic markers, and then turned to confetti in the shredder.

Lily, unforgettable and unconditionally loved

We will not do this, not now, not ever: we will not forget them.

If you were a different sort of person from the kind of person who reads this blog, you might play feral’s advocate.

“But wouldn’t it be easy?”

After all, these are not the star performers in Tabby’s Place: The Cabaret. Bruno, Lily, and their fellow shy souls burrow under blankets, making sure their names are at the bottom of the cast and credits.

Visitors rarely see them. Girl Scouts who reach into their cubbies rarely make the same mistake twice. It would be easy to carry on canoodling Prescott and Pepita and all the “people-cats” who want our attention, affection, and uninterrupted homage.

But you know what we know.

It is just as impossible to ignore, overlook, and forget our fearful cats as it is to scrub the love lines off the palms of our hands.

Polly, full of strength and dignity

Just ask Polly, the eyeless sprite who wanted nothing to do with human hands. All she wanted was the basic blocks of survival: dinner without music, sunshine with no sweetness.

More beautiful than cedars on snow, the little Lebanese cat did not want to be held or beheld. The message was clear. Please move on to other cats. Forget that I am here. Do it for both of our sakes.

But we couldn’t do it.

In fact, we did the opposite of what Polly asked.

Instead of the base model of bare existence, we bought her the luxury vehicle of love. We sent in the smooshiest and smittenest volunteers, with treats in both hands and stars in both eyes.

We kept calling her name, whether or not she answered. Names accumulated, as names always do, when you are wanted and welcome. Polly. Sweetheart. Beautiful. Pollapalooza. Baby.

Lily attempts to enter an alternate dimension in the solarium tube, but love finds her anyway

We ignored her request to ignore her.

We confessed, to Polly and each other, that we were infatuated with her. “You, too?” We overrode her insistence that she was an orphan. And to Polly’s great dismay, the day came when she was not dismayed anymore.

That’s what happens when your friends refuse to forget you. You forget to be afraid of friends.

So, we are not about to start doing the thing we cannot do.

Sorry, sweet Lily, Lily of the Valley, Lilibet, Li’l Nougat. (Do not tell Lily that I told you her rap name.)

You can huddle into Bing’s hair all day, but not even your protector can give us amnesia. We will never insist on holding you, but we carry you in our hearts’ front pockets. The acrobats and extroverts may get adopted. The Taylor Hams and Boobalahs may jangle like charm bracelets in visitors’ arms. People on six continents may watch videos of Hips‘s hooliganism or Grecca‘s astronomical alto.

But at Tabby’s Place, you will never hear these words: “hey, I forgot about Lily.”

We do talk about Bruno, and we will never stop.

We are a stubborn league of rememberers here, which is to say lovers.

We do talk about Bruno, because it gets us giddy to glimpse him enjoying his breakfast.

We are mad about Magda, because she is happy here, even if she thinks we are a bunch of balding falafel balls who might not even be cats at all.

And all eyes are on Polly, because love is the purpose of sight.

They may, or may not, “come around.” Who can say? But there is no stencil for beauty and no schedule for friendship.

At Tabby’s Place, you can be anything you want to be except forgotten. We will do anything but that. We regret nothing.

And no, I am not strong enough to resist inflicting you with this:

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