“How was I not informed about Wilson?”
Our Senior Veterinary Technician was indignant. She churned with righteous indignation.
Her hoodie was coated in a downy layer of grey fur.
There is very little of which our Senior Veterinary Technician is not aware. Denise knows if someone’s ear is itchy. She knows if someone is celebrating a gastrointestinal fiesta. She knows if someone has sworn off giblets and niblets in the interest of a trendy Treato diet. And then there are the cats.
We keep Denise informed, because she keeps our residents healthy. It is in everyone’s best interest to assist Denise in being on everyone’s side.
But no one could have prepared her this time.
No one can ready you for Wilson Rosenberg.
No one can inform you about Wilson, because Wilson is eight infinities worth of information.
More accurately, Wilson is not information at all. Wilson is the sum total of candlelight since the world’s first spark. Wilson is the collective sweetness of all candy corns. Wilson is every heart-shaped feather that ever drowsed through the air, fresh from a silver dove.
Wilson is the power of love. Wilson is the guy who will make muffins while you sing Huey Lewis songs badly (which is redundant, since some things must never be done well). If he could, Wilson would give you two thirds of his cheese sandwich. If he could, Wilson would sculpt the foil from his cheese sandwich into a dove or a dinosaur for your amusement.
Wilson is so excited by your existence, Wilson will convince you that it is good that you exist. Wilson is purring urgency with nowhere to store his excess exclamation points. Wilson heard the rumor that “less is more” and cool kids cover their hearts in lacy frost. Wilson is too warm to be cool.
Wilson strains the limits of language. Wilson strains the laws of physics in an attempt to get close.
No one has been properly informed about Wilson. I feel the furious futility of my words as I type them. Everything you have just read is less than one electron of Wilson’s excellence.
No wonder Denise was caught off guard.
Wonder of wonders that Wilson wills us all well.
If you assume that the cat described herein has known only candles and candy corns, I would understand. You are a human, and since I am approximately 50% the same species as you, I know: human information is honorable, but it hobbles. We assume that sweetness comes from sweetness, and joy erupts from ease.
We forget that miracles drop off information at the station, then continue to ride.
The cat of complete kindness has a broken history. Sometime between birth and the day he bewitched Denise, Wilson was dropped. Love did not last. People did not keep promises.
Like the yellow ball that shares his name, Wilson bounced. Wilson stayed neon. Wilson stayed awake.
Wilson stayed ahead of bare “information.”
And today, with no “good reason,” Wilson is rubbing us threadbare with the love of a lion who knows it’s not too late. He has FIV; he has a holey past; he has a gleam in his eye as he blesses all the beasts and children.
How were you not informed about Wilson? He deals in wisdom, not knowledge.
PS: Raise your hand if you’re astonished that Wilson has been adopted. Why were you not informed about this? Because we were too busy smiling…and making room for our next FIV+ cat. We just can’t keep up with all the love around here.