Far be it from me to recommend theft of federal property.
But if you should happen to be in a certain corner of New Jersey, and your screwdriver should happen to fall into a particular sign just so, Erin and I would appreciate it.
No, no. Erin would never suggest such a thing.
Erin has never suggested anything inappropriate in her life. If Erin went to a sleepover party, and the cats conspired to stay up all night, Erin would look the coolest kitten in the eyes and say, “I’m sorry, I promised Jonathan I would get a good night’s sleep. I am on the honor code.”
If every cat in Suite B were given seven turkey nuggets, and Moo Moo left three for later, Erin would not seize the opportunity. Erin would look her own belly in the button and say, “I’m sorry, I am Erin, which is short for ErIntegrity.”
If Pedro Pascal, Ryan Gosling, and Idris Elba should manifest in Suite B and shove each other out of the way to ask for Erin’s paw in marriage, Erin would decline them all. “I’m sorry, Tabby’s Place needs me more than you do. Besides, my type is Steve Buscemi.”
So, do not tell Erin that I am joking about stealing a sign on her behalf.
But: if I were to metaphorically steal a hypothetical sign on Erin’s behalf, it would be this one.
“Entering Hope.”
While I am sure Hope, NJ is an excellent township, its welcome sign would be more welcome forty miles south.
These are precisely the words cats have read in the sky over Tabby’s Place, ever since the stars aligned in 2003.
“Entering Hope.”
(Yes, also “No parking when road is snow covered, penalty per section 7-3-2d.” Erin assures me this has profound metaphysical significance, too.)
Hope is the heckler who buys tickets to Despair’s stand-up shows. Hope finds the concept of “desperate circumstances” hilarious. Hope permitted us to include the words “cats from hopeless situations” in our mission statement only because Hope likes to see its name.
“Entering Hope.” It’s a bold claim, when you are a smidge too timid to be “easily adoptable.” It’s a strange announcement, when you are grieving the one lap that was your whole world.
But when your name is short for ErIntegrity, you have the courage to read the signs.
When you are a tabby whose veins and arteries are a map of honor, you own the atlas of hope.
You remember every sign, whether they were hand-written by angels or mass-produced by the Department of Transportation.
You remember the road closures, too. Erin was once as carefree as a child drawing chalk castles on the driveway. But orange cones appeared overnight. There was no U-turn back to the person who had adored her. By no fault of her own, Erin’s person had to take another road.
At such a time, hearts have two choices.
They may bulldoze what remains of the garden, mixing rage and tears like mud.
Or, they may start looking for signs.
Erin has chosen the better path.
As Erin is learning, if you look for signs, they’ll find you first. The moment you open your eyes, the glimmers gather.
Peculiar people proclaim you “beautiful” and love you more than makes sense.
They are up to their elbows in treats and up to pure good when it comes to you. They kiss you, canoodle you, and promise you cannolis. (Far be it from me to recommend contraband ricotta.)
They are signposts of another world, breaking like bulbs in the middle of this one.
They remind you that you were well-loved once, and love never comes just once.
“Entering Hope.”
Even if we received permission to borrow the sign, it would be insufficient. “Entering Hope” is not a one-time event.
“Entering Hope” is the promise we make to every Tabby’s Place cat, and each other.
When you are a tabby of honor, you assume promises get kept.
Old love and new speak the same language. The signs are everywhere.
PS: Erin has a new sign: “Entering Home.” That’s precisely what she did, yesterday. May the road rise to meet you and your AwesomeAdopters, dear girl.