He came into this kingdom in April, not August.
He pronounced himself a mouse, not a manticore.
But a brown tabby can only hide his majesty for so long.
Brown tabbies are the blue jeans of the feline wardrobe. Black cats flaunt velvet vavoom, and the smallest tortie contains one hundred thousand sequins.
Watercolor calicos carry genetics that make people genuflect. Marmalade cats have closets full of sun-bleached Jimmy Buffett T-shirts.
But brown tabbies are “plain brown tabbies,” the commonest cats on seven continents.
They are Monday afternoons, not Saturday nights. They are apple juice, not Chardonnay. They are as expected as tomorrow morning. They are overlooked by impatient eyes.
This is the mystery of their splendor.
Leo urged us to keep our expectations modest. Wiggly but cooperative, the leggy arrival us he was just an old pair of dungarees.
When we told him he wears the same noble stripes as our namesake Tabby, Leo hid his head in the nearest human elbow.
Hadn’t we heard? He came with a common face but a complicated body. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot produce insulin anymore. When we told him that diabetic cats are dukes and dreamboats around here, Leo looked at the floor.
If you are looking for a good king, look among those who appear too small for the crown.
Leo was outfitted with a standard-issue head. He was etched with the requisite “M” that has tattooed tabby brows since cats rode pterodactyls.
He came to the place where everyone is chronically smitten. We are a virulent league of lovers at Tabby’s Place, and we have never met a bland or basic cat.
If you are looking for a legend, consider those who consider themselves common.
“Shy” and “sweet” pulled the reins of Leo’s chariot. His cidery eyes insisted, “I’m just an ordinary guy.”
He was not incorrect.
He was gloriously correct.
Ordinary guys are the hope of the world.
No geneticist will admit this, but the space between a plain brown tabby’s stripes is storage for grandeur.
This is particularly the case if the king in question holds an orb of humility and a scepter of shyness. It is not that Leo does not know he is a king. It is that he knows that every living creature is a king, a queen, or perhaps a plain brown tabby.
That’s why Leo gives pride of place to bolder faces. Leo loves to watch other little ones discover that they are large.
What does he have to lose if Taylor Ham thunders through the Lounge like a hippopotamus? Where is the threat in Baby‘s booglarizing Leo’s breakfast?
How is he to bear all these sappy saints in denim, volunteers of valor and staff whose syringes mingle insulin and love?
How can it be that Leo landed just a little lower than the angels, here in the Place named for a Tabby?
He can no better answer that question than he can stay atop the throne. There is too much wriggling and wiggling to do. The little cat with the littlest ego wants every star to shine, starting with those who think they are only parking lot rocks.
The diabetic cat with the daunting needs wants every cat to be a king, starting with those most mundane.
The cat who lost his home wants everyone to join the quest to be found.
If you stop to love Leo, do not be surprised if you feel an invisible tiara resting lightly on your head. This is an occupational hazard of those who keep company with kings of kindness.
At age ten, Leo has just begun.
He has been kissed with the crown of bewilderment. He will never get used to gentleness, good health, or giblet-flavored gelatin. His stripes strain to fit the glories of all the “normal” days.
He will be Leo the Leo, though he arrived in March. He will be Leo the king, though he walks with the humble.
He will be Leo the Magnificent, just like the M on his forehead says.