No. It’s too tempting. I am strong enough to resist.

I am not going to write about Cinco de Meow.

I am not going to write about Cinco de Meow.

I am not going to … unless Juel asks me to.

Dangit, Juel.

You know I would do anything for you.

I would rent out a movie theater on your birthday, so all the cats in Suite E can watch Shrek 5. I would buy every flavor of Combos, so you can do an academic taste test. I would send poems about you to The Paris Review.

I would even write about Cinco de Meow.

Do I have to do it, Juel? You know it’s cheesy. I know cats don’t care about May 5th. I mean, of course you do. But that is only because cats care ardently about days, and May 5th happens to be one of those.

“Days” are the only place you can find cheese, fleece, and people who love their neighbors even when it gets messy.

Days like Cinco de Meow are where you will find all the messy things.

(I do not mean the messy things that explain why the floors at Tabby’s Place have drains.)

I mean the mess of three old strangers sharing one sunbeam, as though their whole lives led to this party. I mean Juel, Shaggy, and Nirvana, shining like the future is a fat pinata, and the best treats have yet to tumble out.

I mean Jack. He was adopted. He was returned. He is full of forgiveness. Thanks to a little inflammation in his larynx, his meow has more chords than a Mariachi band. Thanks to the music inside, he is proud to lead the parade.

I mean all the quiet milagros around the sanctuary. These are the miracles small as pinto beans, yet as important as a cat’s toes.

Step gently, and you will find them everywhere.

Chin-skritching is a folk dance, and Lily has decided we are her folks.

Reggie is more fun than queso fundido, and he just melted an adopter’s heart.

Strawberry-sized senior Smoothie and five hundred pound kindergartner Hips share one siesta, proving that differences can be delights.

(We shall not speak of Suite G, where Dewie and Abacus reenact the Battle of Puebla every hour on the hour.)

But we shall speak of Cinco de Meow, Juel, because you asked us to.

We shall speak of Willie, full of grace. Some said he was wounded beyond repair. We had no guarantee he would live to see another May. That means every day is Cinco de Meow. Every day we get another day is the very best day. He is the whole enchilada.

We shall speak of Uni, the acrobat whose name is her numero. She spent much of her youth in the hospital. She is making up for lost time, to the beat of her own castanets. She is the salt on the margarita rim. She is all the peppers.

We shall speak of Bacon, our preeminent celebrant. Bacon? Bacon survives on stability. He is more introverted than a mollusk. A rare neurological condition means that he needs everything to remain the same, every day, even on Cinco de Meow.

Nestled in a private suite for ten years, Bacon may not seem the right poster cat for the party.

Yet what greater holiday than the day you are loved for who you are?

What could be wilder than to be understood?

Yes, Juel, I will write about Cinco de Meow.

I will write about every day at Tabby’s Place.

Next week we’ll talk about your birthday party.

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