“I wish I could be a Tabby’s Place cat!”
“In my next life, I will be a Tabby’s Place cat!”
“I’m ready to move into Tabby’s Place! I’ll use a litter box!”
We have caught these exclamations like comets for twenty years.
They leap from mouths that hang open in amazement. They arc like fireballs over whirligig paraplegics and long-tailed manatees. They land in our laughing hands, which are open to omnipotent kittens, hissing curmudgeons, and surprise.
All kittens are omnipotent, of course, with their powers of innocence and their finger-in-the-socket hair.
All cats remain kittens, of course.
Tabby’s Place is their sovereign nation. We exist to do their bidding. They bet the house on beef nuggets and unconditional love. The latter comes with insulin, patience, and whatever you need to thrive as precisely yourself.
It’s a parable, this place. It’s a beatitude painted in big stripes. And so, everyone wants to be a Tabby’s Place cat.
Maybe.
Theodosia is still deciding whether or not she wants to be a Tabby’s Place cat.
She was one of the final residents of a shuttering shelter. She was too old and too honest. The curtains rose and fell on her chances.
The world would not sell her its front-row choices.
Dressed in grey velvet, Theodosia was not invited to sing. Like her namesake, she never appeared onstage. All the big decisions whizzed over her head.
Composed of hundred-proof honesty, Theodosia knew.
Cats are resplendent, incandescent, and a hint of the heart of God. Cats all have IQs over 250, impeccable taste in music, and inviolable dignity. But cats do not always have choices.
Human beings are attached to our choices, even when they are illusions.
Theodosia was under no illusions. She was a tired old cat in a rapidly emptying building. Then, she was a tired old cat in a place of joy, the one and only Tabby’s Place.
But Theodosia did not choose this place.
Theodosia did not choose the fleece Bluey blankets, the gelatinous giblets, or the dewy-eyed dunderheads who chose to love her on arrival.
Theodosia did not choose to grow up, yet here she is, yielding to time.
Theodosia did not choose the devotees who demand our right to adore her, though she is choosing to return the favor.
Theodosia was born into a species that, even here in the parable-place, must ride the parabola of hope and grief.
Theodosia was born into a world that offers a single choice: the valley or the vault.
Even here, where love never leaves, every life is U-shaped. Kittens of all species are born on the mountaintop. Hope is our birthright.
Then, loss, hunger, and a thousand little lootings send us all down, down, down the canyon.
We do not stay young. We do not remain free of tattoos we did not choose: Old. Unadoptable. Can’t carry a tune. Feet smell like cheese. Tries too hard. Heart too soft. Dunderhead.
But even old cats are offered a skateboard.
The wheels are reminders, whispered heart to heart: Enough. Beloved. Inimitable. Unfinished. Invited.
There is momentum back upward, if you’ll take it.
Theodosia has made her choice.
She will rise. She will be reborn in twilight. She will take what she has been given, claim the Place she has been taken, and say yes: “I want to be a Tabby’s Place cat.”
She will also audition three octaves of screams when offered incorrect beef nuggets or poor renditions of Hamilton songs.
But to want your life is to own it entirely, even the grey days and the fallen stars.
Like her namesake, Theodosia has a beautiful love song with her name in the title. Unlike her namesake, Theodosia has hundreds of beautiful love songs with her name in the title. They increase daily.
This is, after all, Tabby’s Place.
The only omnipotence is love.
In this life, we can all be Tabby’s Place cats.