Someone once said, “If you want to know who somebody is, watch what they do when there’s nothing to do.”
What do they do when it’s too early for the movie?
What do they do in the waiting room with no magazines?
What do they do on an extended stay in Suite D? Ask Mr. Mustache.
There is no question who Mr. Mustache is.
His driver’s license says he is sixteen years old and stands 9.8″ tall. His photograph tells you that his hair is as red as Willie Nelson’s, and his eyes are bright as marigolds. His vet record reveals that he has feline immunodeficiency virus (FIV), a rowdy thyroid, and high mileage.
But Mr. Mustache is Thanksgiving.
Mr. Mustache is an expatriate of a feral colony. Mr. Mustache is a member of felis catus. He is the owner of a goatee that makes jazz musicians jealous. He is a heavy consumer of kibble, also known as meat that looks like cereal.
But Mr. Mustache is Thanksgiving.
If you tell Mr. Mustache about that time you convinced your little brother that cat kibble is cereal, and he ate a spoonful, Mr. Mustache will feel empathy for both of you. (If you tell him that this happened last Tuesday, he will recommend a good counselor named Dr. Chicken Nugget.)
But Mr. Mustache is Thanksgiving.
Mr. Mustache will remind you how fortunate you are to have a brother. Brothers are the best. When Mr. Mustache has nothing to do, Mr. Mustache informs his brothers that they are the best. They are better than all other brothers. But if other brothers show up, they will immediately become the best, too. Nobody loved by Mr. Mustache will never be “other” again.
Mr. Mustache has an expansive definition of “family.” Mr. Mustache’s family includes brothers, grandmothers, Lina, and one Development Director with a brain chemically identical to mashed potatoes. Let Mr. Mustache define “family” as he wishes. Language is safer with him than with us, anyway. We are the species who calls green bean casserole “food.”
When you step into his life, you become Mr. Mustache’s family.
When he has nothing to do, Mr. Mustache turns “others” into family.
Mr. Mustache loved Rawlings into radiance, until the jowly nimbus cloud became a jaunty, nimble clown. Mr. Mustache breaded Chicken Nugget in brotherhood, back when our purring poultry thought the world was raw. Mr. Mustache made room for Poppa Lay at the head of the table.
There is no weight limit on Mr. Mustache’s ramp, which is fortunate, given his feline family’s resemblance to minivans and manatees.
There is no occupancy limit in Mr. Mustache’s heart, which is fortunate, since the world teems with the lonely.
Mr. Mustache is Thanksgiving.
Maybe we are all trying to be Thanksgiving.
We stand around the kitchen island and talk about FitBits instead of our dreams. Between first and second down, we want to tell our uncles that we love them. Instead we stuff our cheeks until we cannot speak. While the pie crust browns, we catch our grandmothers’ eyes. They want to talk, really talk. But we chicken out over coffee. We are as frazzled as those poor fried onions that never asked to blanket green beans.
We have nothing to do but look in each other’s eyes. Instead, we look at ourselves, and we get scared.
But Mr. Mustache’s eyes are open.
Mr. Mustache does not believe in wasting time.
Mr. Mustache has “nothing to do” this Thanksgiving, or any other Thursday. He is a well-loved cat. His kibble manifests like manna. His schedule is swept clean of the need to prove anything. He has nothing to do.
And when he has nothing to do, Mr. Mustache gives thanks.
Yes: Mr. Mustache is Thanksgiving.
Mr. Mustache will not hold back a single head-bonk for a more opportune time. He will not accept your empty arms, not even if they are folded tight as armor over your heart. Mr. Mustache does not believe in waiting for the other person to say “I love you” first.
This puts Mr. Mustache at risk, like all who give thanks.
Give thanks, and the recipient may give you a funny look.
Love first, and your love may hit the linoleum like a cranberry.
But when you are a Tabby’s Place cat, or a Tabby’s Place person, your love will not return void.
Give thanks for the cat too shy to touch. Give thanks for the aunt whose vote cancelled yours out. Give thanks for small talk from shy hearts. Give thanks for the whiskered Willie Nelson whose gratitude gentles the world.
Give thanks, and you will know the reason you had “nothing to do.”
Give thanks, and you never know what might happen.
Mr. Mustache is sixteen years old and 9.8″ tall, which is enough to know that the time-in-between is the best time. There is no other.
There is, however, breaking news.
Mr. Mustache has been adopted by two of the kindest human beings who ever walked the Earth.
Happy Thanksgiving, Tabby’s Place family.