Never, ever, ever.
Ever, ever, ever. Ever. Never. Ever.
Ever.
Now you know the point at which you are permitted to give up.
You are not yet permitted to give up when the buds are on the branches. You are too young to stay in the room when sad adults speak of “giving up.” You are a half-gallon of cookies and cream. You are a glass half-full.
You are Elijah, four years old and new to Tabby’s Place. It is 2011.
You are not permitted to give up, although you have been given up. Happy adults turn sad as they read your record. Can this be? You were returned to a shelter because you were “too big.” Those are the actual words, though we cannot swallow them whole. Someone wanted a lap cat. You exceeded their expectations. All your pounds were towed back to the shelter.
You are Elijah, and you will enlarge, not fold.
You are not permitted to give up when you turn round. You are young enough to laugh at yourself. You roll on the floor when they compare you to a cow. You suggest that you are the cow that jumped over the moon, as well as the moon itself. You roll on the floor because you are a perfect circle of peace, and dinner always comes.
You are Elijah, and you are a cat of great gladness.
You are not permitted to give up when adopters take you on a first date, but not a second. You are glad just to jam in the jelly jar of love. Sad adults reassure you that your day will come. You were sufficiently assured the first time: your day has come, and it makes comebacks every breakfast. When people pet you, you win, even if someone else leaves in the carrier.
You are Elijah, and all you do is win.
You are not permitted to give up when sad adults despair of your finding a “forever home.” You are too enormous to accommodate despair. Your green eyes blink NO VACANCY at dread.
You have adopted a philosophy of irrevocable jubilation. You consider yourself adopted by love, which makes the details irrelevant. The Executive Director remarks that you are “as dense as a neutron star.” You are old enough to know this is a compliment.
You are Elijah, and you excel at giving compliments.
You are not permitted to give up when chances give themselves and take themselves away. You are aware that this is simply what chances do. You are young enough to remember that lovers are lovers, and lovers are everywhere, even if some are called “adopters” and some are called “volunteers.” Apparently, some are called “sushi chefs,” a species you would like to meet.
You are Elijah, and you will be adopted and returned, without ever leaving yourself.
You are not permitted to give up when your name attaches to a ragged reputation. You know that you are Elijah. You are not “inappropriate elimination,” even if that is what brought you back from your adoptive home. You are Elijah, and you know that you are always at home.
The Development Director remarks that you look like the entire oeuvre of Little Debbie cakes in a single individual. You are young enough to know that this is a compliment.
You are Elijah, and you collect “forevers” like dandelions.
You are not permitted to give up when ten years elapse, then twelve. You are Elijah, and you know that every year is a good year. The more you accumulate, the more you win.
You are Elijah, and you know you are winning at life. You would like to offer three Zebra Cakes to everyone who says you might be a “lifer.” You are old enough to know that this is a compliment.
You are Elijah, and you are life writ large.
You are not permitted to give up when you move to Quinn’s Corner with Steven, and everyone calls you the Sunshine Boys. You are wise enough to laugh at your bathroom habits. You will always be young enough to find bathroom jokes hilarious.
Now you can sun yourself in orange rectangles that look like peanut butter cup wrappers. Now you can tell Steven that you hope you live to be a hundred seventeen, because every year outdoes the one before.
You are Elijah, and you love years.
You are not permitted to give up when people patter about expiration dates but refuse to share their cottage cheese. You can live without dairy and adoption.
You reset the timer every morning. You are taking online courses in how to reset the Tabby’s Place clocks to read 4pm all day. That is when the seafood comes. You talk to Steven about distant shores and agree that this landlocked town is better.
You are Elijah, and you always make a big splash. It is not “too big.”
You are not permitted to give up when Mick Jagger does not write you back. You asked if he would let you and Steven join the Rolling Stones, since you are older than Keith Richards but have better bathroom habits. You will write to Mick again. You will write yourself a love letter after breakfast.
You are Elijah, and you are a love letter with no expiration date.
When you are Elijah, you are always astonished but seldom surprised. You love all of your years and all of your volunteers. You love the staff, and the donors, and the dryer repair man.
You love your adopter.
Yes: today, you love your adopter.
You are not surprised that he arrived.
You are pleased that he arrived on time, although you don’t know any wrong time. He loves old cats. He loves you with a love that is ancient and new.
You are not sure if you are “old,” but you will take it.
You are not sure why all your old friends are sobbing. They don’t cry like sad humans do, but they are crying enough to turn Ringoes into an ocean.
You are Elijah. You are not too old, and it is not too late. Your day at the sea has only just begun.
Elijah’s “victory lap” before going to his forever home: