You were not wrong to think that things could change.
You were not wrong to want more than you’d let yourself want before.
You’d been bitten before — badly.
You’d even been wronged, some might say, dropped from great heights of hope into the dust of death. Or at least, the little death of desertion, of love that failed.
Still, you guarded a nook of your heart for hope.
You held fast to a small smooth stone that promised a stream somewhere, bubbling and alive with love stronger than death.
You hoped past the point of “foolishness.”
You were not wrong.
The sound of bubbling and burbling grew louder. The stone in your paw grew warm. The fire in your belly boiled with a dream about to end its delay. Your nook, secret and sacred and shrouded, filled with light.
And then it grew.
And so did you.
Today, you live a life that promises others: you are not wrong.
You are Wilbur, yapping and yammering and sashaying your scruffiness through a veritable Soul Train of people and cats who adore you, FIV and hardscrabble handsomeness and all.
You are CornPop, quavering kitten who “aged out” of uber-adoptability only to find your song and your spark and yourself in Suite B.
You are Catsup, anxious infant turned pastel princess, ready to reign and romp and send hearts over the moon. Fear lied to you; you’re telling the truth to all who will listen.
You are Diaz, near-ancient and near-toothless and near the pinnacle of bliss, your suite’s resident counselor and comforter and charmer of all creatures, including the elusive Doodle.
You are Ginger, given to dirty looks and “hatred” of humans, but given — with or without your permission — love from serene souls who hunker down in your corner and tell you of your beauty.
You are Primrose and Polly and Pixie.
You are Bucca-ancient and Burt-new.
You are hope ascendant.
And you are right, from your nose to your jellybean toes.
May we grow in awe. May we grow like you.