Here we are, you and me and the cats, on this planet of splendor and terror.
My neighbor puts out daily vegan hot dogs, plural, for squirrels. We have never lived in a time without croissants. Multiple people think you’re cute. Mariachi music exists. Death is loud and hungry. Cats and grandparents are not immortal.
This is not a drill.
Certain persons — surely no one in this room — might accuse me of giving cats too much credit. I realize I portray them as small egomaniacs obsessed with deli meat, possessing doctoral degrees in human development and psychology, who know exactly what they are doing.
In other words, I am a science writer, committed to verifiable facts and unflinching accuracy.
I regret nothing.
I have never felt so validated in my truth-telling as the day I met CAT.
Composed entirely of eyes, comets, punk rock and tyranny, CAT is a cloud of wisdom. Like some celestial beast from the weirder books of the Bible, he defies easy description, forcing us to the far edge of metaphor.
CAT is a full wingspan. CAT is the sliver that splits the night into a moonsmile. CAT is the question more comforting than any answer. CAT is a strange seraph. CAT is an extra pound of pastrami that the deli boy sliced by accident and let you have for free.
CAT would like an extra pound of pastrami for his extra contributions to human development.
CAT came to us in a state we would soon recognize as his default. Some of us live in of New Jersey. Some of us live in a snit. Some of us live in a state of wonder. All of us live in a state of grace, although we go for long walks and get lost in snitville and need a cat to walk us home.
CAT lives in a state of incomprehension.
CAT cannot wrap his wits around the weirdness, and The Weirdness is both the name of his Iron Maiden tribute band and the planet on which we live. (“Earth” is shorthand.)
CAT could not believe he’d come to Tabby’s Place, a land all filled with arms and smiles and squeaky-voiced hearts walking around on two legs and telling him he’s terrific. CAT’s ten thousand eyes were all wide as he gazed upon us, gazing upon him, grace gushing in both directions.
CAT could not fathom the depths of the canyon called SUITE, an underappreciated National Historic Site filled with monuments of meaning (CAT2, o bright star!) and moronity (CAT3, whither thy brain?) and, for meager moments of the day, even meat (minced! flaked! smooshed into scoops to outshine all the stars!).
CAT could not control himself around kindness, kneading deli loaves of delight into every available human surface, all those eyes alight with astonishment.
CAT could not relinquish control over the weirdness, wielding his ego and his excellence with equal force until every lesser cherub flew in formation around his desires. (If you’ll pardon me, I need to pause this blog to go procure pastramis plural.)
CAT is emphatic and apophatic, defining life by what cannot be said than by weak words. This world is not simple. This world is not predictable. This world is not fully visible to the naked eye, even if you have thousands of them. This world is not dull. This world is not unkind. This world is not comprehensible.
CAT is a knot of nots, nors, and noodlings, which honors a world too wondrous for yeps, yeahs, and easy explanations.
As I said at the start: CAT is a cloud of wisdom.
Specifically, CAT is the Oort Cloud.
The Oort Cloud is a sort of intergalactic Magic Shell on the edge of this solar system’s ice cream cone. It’s such a mystery that, like you and me and the cats, it can’t be proven to exist. But it’s so awesome that, like you and me and the cats, it’s full of shimmering surprises. Specifically, baby comets and star jackets and other ancient icy treats collectively called “Trans-Neptunian objects,” which is also CAT’s Neil Diamond tribute band.
No one knows exactly how many Trans-Neptunian objects there are, but they’re estimated at 2 trillion. Incidentally, that is also the number of eyes from which CAT sees; the number of astonishments CAT experiences hourly; and the number of pounds of pastrami CAT calculates he has earned in his time at Tabby’s Place.
On that, I cannot disagree, for our diligent Oort Cloud is indeed providing a priceless service here. He’s casting comets through our “comprehension.” He’s hurling thunderbolts through our tidy explanations. He’s exuding so much astonishment that boredom itself is becoming an endangered species around here, and we’re all seeing more than we ever saw before.
Life is absolutely terrifying, taking and taking and taking and making new things and making new friendships and making new comets out there on the Magic Shell as we speak.
Life is ice cream and ice pellets, shoulder rubs and moldy English muffins, lunacy and loss and light years of love.
Life is a credit to our courage, capable of giving galaxy-sized grace when we err on the side of giving each other too much credit.
Life is the weirdness and the wonder, CAT and you and me, all here together.
Here we are.
This is not a drill.
Let’s keep our feet on the weirdness and our heads in the clouds.