We think success means being picked.
We think death can’t touch us if we wear the Chosen hat.
But there’s not a cat alive who forgets to choose himself.
Even if there were, CAT would not be that cat.
Thunderous and turbulent, a bolt of rippling originality, CAT is the Ruffle in a bag of generic crisps. CAT is the kookaburra in a nest of responsible ravens. CAT has espoused Lizzo’s “Juice” as his personal philosophy. CAT is the Mustang going 99 while Subarus Sunday-drive. CAT is every truck driver who’s ever hoped a child would pump their fist and give him an excuse to hooooooooooooooooooooooonk.
CAT has not been chosen.
This is not for lack of trying. When adopters arrive, CAT goes full-color, full-supernova, full-fat friendliness. He delivers operas and oratorios and pizza-pie-eyed professions of love. He defies gravity and CAT2 and all good sense.
They choose another cat.
So CAT chooses another candidate. This one will vote him into forever, unable to resist his inability to resist himself. This one will make him the one, the favored one, the one worth every instant of the wait. This one will call moon and sun to testify: “CAT is the cat who matters.”
Or not.
And to CAT, it won’t much matter.
Because CAT has chosen CAT. He did it yesterday. He did it today. And tomorrow’s looking pretty spectacular.
How lucky are the humans who amble into his amphitheater, unprepared for the unrepeatable performance of CAT’s lifetime. And everyone can be so lucky. CAT’s lifetime is a long, lyric poem of lifetimes, and he fills a notebook every hour, although it’s mostly exclamation points rather than words.
This is the part where I would like to tell you that CAT is confident because we’ve pumped him up like a bounce-castle, because Tabby’s Place is magnificent and merciful and mighty to turn dirges into dance parties daily. We are, but CAT brought his own dance party.
CAT would be chuffed if you should invite him to your next hoedown or jamboree or cheesesteak cotillion, but he won’t be ruffled if you don’t. Frankly, CAT isn’t waiting on you or me or Kelly Clarkson to declare him sensational.
CAT has already declared himself king.
(He is waiting on us to declare “hamburger hour,” but this is a lesser goal.)
Whatever happens between now and CAT’s last dance (c. 2094, for a creature of such thunderous turbulence is born to outlive everyone), CAT has achieved his highest aspiration. He has warmed himself at the raging fire of his worth, and he now gets to be a bolt of heat lightning for life.
Adoption is not the objective, nice though it would be.
Favorite Cat Status is not the holy grail, since he already hallows himself as his own favorite cat.
External validation is excellent, especially when accompanied by hamburgers, but it will never match the music of CAT’s inner barbershop quartet (four snow leopards harmonizing to “CAT’s So Vain”).
And fortunately for us, CAT’s inability to doubt himself means he has free time to unshackle us.
You don’t need me to remind you that we can be perilously unCATlike. We think it’s our purpose to be chosen, that life will begin and fear will end when someone knights us with Yes.
Trouble is, Yes comes, and Yes is insufficient, so long as Yes is on the other side of our own brainball.
Even the sweetest Yes can’t quiet the inner middle-school band who sings that we’re unchoosable because we hate hiking (CAT: “but you’re an accomplished indoorswoman!”). Or because we burst into flame a thousand ways every day (CAT: “neurosis-candles smell lovely!”). Or because we walk into walls (CAT: “klutzes drive me nutzes!”). Or because we can’t even scramble eggs (CAT: “but nobody beats you at the word scramble!”).
We fear, where CATS dare to flaunt. We think, if everybody sees our yolky, folksy, rippling weirdness, nobody will choose us. And if nobody chooses us, we will be nobody.
Or maybe we will be cats.
And maybe that will be quite enough.
We can choose the same life CAT has chosen (with potential variations in personal hygiene and hypomania regarding meat nuggets). We can grasp the goal every dimpled day. We can fill each notebook with novellas about ourselves and each other.
We don’t have to wait to be picked. Joy is falling off the vine.
And CAT is falling off the ramp, right this moment, to remind somebody that life is a league of laughters, if you choose.