We sing abundantly at Tabby’s Place. (Jonathan would nominate a different adverb.)

We sing passionately at Tabby’s Place.

But we must repent of singing falsely at Tabby’s Place.

We sing while we are giving insulin. We sing while we are diapering and un-diapering Olive (who “sings” louder than all others, if Medieval thrash metal can be called singing). We sing while we are expressing bladders. We sing while we are expressing gratitude to donors.

We sing showtunes and K-Pop and John Prine. We sing original songs born of the moment and the cat (e.g. such fresh beats as “Rashida, I need ya, you’re the apricot of my eye”). We sing the truth.

Usually.

But, on penalty of lifelong eviction from the Boardwalk, we have been sternly instructed to silence one song. It is a wonderful song. It is an infectious song. It is a song that, once heard, you shall continue to hear until you slip this mortal coil. It just happens to be a song that does not belong under the roof of Tabby’s Place.

It is “We Don’t Talk About Bruno.”

You must be patient with us. You must be honest with yourself: upon meeting a cat named Bruno, would you not also burst into Encanto‘s most irresistible hit?

But we must all be honest with Bruno, who is a purveyor of pure reality. We do talk about Bruno. Constantly.

We talked about Bruno the hour of his arrival. He came from Coney Island, wearing the grimace of a guy too short for the Ferris Wheel and two hours late for the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Competition. Bruno was grizzled and frazzled. Bruno was FIV+ and frail. Bruno had been vaccinated against the spineless meatless mealy-mouthed mumbling that besets our species.

Bruno told the truth. Bruno did not feel blessed.

Bruno was, of course, blessed. Bruno had, by the mercies of three seraphs disguised as New Yorkers, just become a Tabby’s Place cat. But the road from Brooklyn to Ringoes was long, and Bruno is still balking about the tolls.

Meanwhile, we can’t stop talking about Bruno.

We talk about the face shaped like a pizza pie, those late-neutered jowls that have us all crooning “Amore.” We talk about the hiss that somehow only makes him handsomer. We talk about the fact that Brooklyn’s finest has reduced our hearts to relish, even if all he wants is for us to stop singing.

We sing “We Don’t Talk About Bruno” on breaks from talking about Bruno.

Bruno isn’t buying any of it.

Bruno knows, somewhere between those jowls and reservations, that he is big news in this small town. He sees Ferris wheels spinning in our smitten eyes. He sees us not looking away, even when he sings vocabulary words unfit for this family-friendly blog.

He sees us trying to respect his silence. The boy from across the bridge has crossed many rivers, and we try to give him space. So many songs jostle inside that planetary head. Does he mull the distance from frankfurter to Fancy Feast beef pate? Does he pray for his previous dinner companion, an actual rat, no I am not making this up, no really I swear, no really, just look at the picture? Does he wonder if anyone will ever fund his dissertation, “Milk’s Journey to Cheese”?

Does he gaze around Suite I and realize he is the big bocconcino in a league of heroes? His life is fringed with legends, one-eared Fergie and blind prophet Polly and wise old Wario and golden Rihanna. They are all FIV+, all “blessed” with a broken song. They are all adored by literal hundreds of human beings, lullabyed and lifted like the light of life itself.

Some mystical music seems to rule all the ragamuffins here.

Bruno first heard it among his seraphs. They saved his life. They strung songs together until the symphony led to Tabby’s Place. They follow up on him. They miss him. They sing for him still.

They are our heroes. They are part of our family now. We talk to them about Bruno.

Bruno knows.

Does he secretly sing under his breath, “They All Talk About Bruno”?

Far beneath the sulk and snark, is he quietly pleased?

Bruno is such a cat of integrity that I dare not put words in his scowl. I will not contend that he enjoys our singing. I will not wring his colorful language into a lei and say he loves us.

I will keep talking about him. Constantly.

We will keep talking to him, in delicate dulcet tones that all mean I love you. I love you. I love you. Yes, even so. Yes, without end.

We will talk about Bruno as winter runs out of mustard and spring reopens its carnival. We all want him to take our talk to heart, to crack open like a Cadbury egg, and to savor the sweetness we just can’t shut up. But what we want most is Bruno’s best interest. So we’ll keep talking, taking our huffy hot dog’s temperature until he tells us what he needs. If that is ultimately a safe barn home, we will love him for who he is and ferry him where he belongs.

Love always sings the truth.

We do talk about Bruno. And we will never stop.