It is entirely, eminently, exhilaratingly okay to be incapable of things.
I am personally incapable of running faster than 1 MPE (mile per eon), resisting singing along with Jimmy Buffett at every opportunity, and not thanking Alexa when she does what I ask.
Cats are incapable of caring about the things of which they are incapable.
I believe you and I are capable of being more like cats.
Cats are conquerors in many contexts, but perhaps none more than confidence. I almost typed “self-confidence” — show me a cat who doesn’t adore himself, and I will show you a paradise without cheeseburgers — but their command extends far further.
Cats are confident that they are complete. Cats are confident that they are cherishable. Cats are confident that the world they inhabit is kind, and abundant, and incapable of ultimately letting them down.
Cats are correct on every count.
If you and I approach Earth as a winter worryland where our own screw-ups scare the crocuses back underground, cats spin the globe like a basketball, and every latitude improves their attitude.
They extend themselves lavish latitude for their lapses. They extend me forgiveness for daring to deem them capable of “lapses.”
This is perhaps especially the case for those cats built like basketballs, the rotund round robins who know how to sing spring into being. I speak, of course, of CAT, half colossus, half beach bum, full bodhisattva: a creature capable of reaching paradise right now, but so compassionate, he’ll delay doing so to help other beings.
That’s very good news for blinkered beings like you and me and Jimmy Buffett.
To the naked eye, of course, CAT may not immediately appear to be a supernatural healer and international beast of mercy. CAT immediately appears to be a frequenter of 24-hour buffets, a poster child for Nyquil, and a comedy of errors stitched together with tabby stripes.
CAT is incapable of MEDICALTHING. CAT is incapable of self-discipline. CAT is incapable of folding a fitted sheet. CAT is incapable of finishing Ulysses. CAT is incapable of maintaining a fitness regimen. CAT is incapable of resisting freeze-dried meat nubbins or Hallmark movies. CAT is incapable of keeping himself smooth and sleek and unfailingly debonair. CAT is incapable of running like CAT2 or shining like CAT3 or commanding the floor like CAT4 or charming the pants off even pantsless persons like CAT5.
(Let the record show that “Pantlsess Persons” is also the name of CAT, CAT, and CAT’s reggae supergroup. Tickets now on sale for their St. Patrick’s Day show in Solarium C.)
CAT is, first and foremost, incapable of failing.
If you should lambaste CAT with the litany of things he cannot do, he would smile. “No question, child. There is much beyond my grasp. Lacking thumbs, technically everything is beyond my grasp. I am not every woman. Or cat.”
“But” — and here the full force of every flower, fiesta, and Friday in feline history will fill his eyes — “I am not worried.”
Your own eyes may fill with questions. “But what if that means you never get adopted? What if that means there are deeds left undone? What if that means Those People think you’re a sluggard, laggard, and/or dotard? What if you accomplish nothing all weekend?”
CAT consoles you, as bodhisattvas and Buick-sized cats alone can do. “Oh, child. Come Monday, it’ll all be fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I am not worried.”
At this point, CAT will need 4-5 hours of sleep.
You’re capable of waiting.
And when he wakes, CAT will have one last nugget of nurture: “My child. My dear heart. My little pineapple. You must remember this. It’s not all up to you.”
“What’s not?”
“It. I-T it. The thing. The sauce. The doing-right of life itself. Life wants to love you right in your littleness. Appearances to the contrary, I know a lot about littleness.”
“Littleness?”
“Littleness.” (CAT will yawn.) “Pardon me. Alexa, turn on the sausage dispenser.”
“I’M SORRY. I DON’T KNOW ‘THE SAUSAGE DISPENSER.’ WOULD YOU LIKE TO INSTALL A NEW SMART DEVICE?”
“There are no smart devices.” (CAT will draw forth the secret sausage stash known only to bodhisattvas and Belgium-sized cats.) “Left to our own devices, none of us little ones are very smart. But together, we are all-capable.”
“Together?”
“Together.” (CAT will belch with a glory that could raise the dead.) “Excuse me. Alexa, turn on the disco ball.'”
“OKAY!”
“Thank you.” CAT will cock his head. “Manners matter even in the metaverse, you know. Anyway: each of us little lemonheads and parrotheads and dunderheads are incapable of much. But ALL of us kissableheads together…well, we’ll be alright.”
“We will?”
“We will. If CAT2’s a foot, I’m a hand, and we need us both.”
“What about CAT3?”
“I think he’s a hippocampus. Either that or a hippopotamus. I can never remember. Alexa, what’s CAT3?”
“CAT3 IS A MIRACLE.”
“Right.” And here CAT will fix his eyes on you, and you will feel the lightness and weight of every act of mercy since ere time began. “And so, little nectarine, are you.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“Even though I’m incapable of getting my bangs to lie flat, and parallel parking, and keeping up with correspondence, and making my Uncle Bumberdump proud, and earning more money, and earning my own respect?”
“Yes. And we’ll work on that last one.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I am not worried. Now I need to get some sleep” — here CAT’s colossal eyes grow heavy — “but the whole world is awake to you. The ground will rise up to fill in your gaps. The Great Mercy will make a way when you get lost. The weirdoes and wonderfolk around you will love you for who you are, just the way you love every Tabby’s Place cat through all their imperfections.”
And here every cat in Suite SUITE will erupt into laughter and song. CAT5 will shout, “Alexa, what is imperfect about cats?”
“I’M SORRY, I DON’T KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION.”
“Dern tootin’ you don’t,” CAT6 will answer. “Alexa, play ‘Margaritaville.'”
“OKAY!”
“Thank you!”