We admire the ruthless at our peril.
We admire the toothless to our benefit.
If you should endeavor to count the sum total of teeth at Tabby’s Place, the tooth-to-mouth ratio would be considerably lower than “normal.”
This reflects more negatively on “normal” than on Tabby’s Place.
We’re not here today to nibble on the statistic that 70% of cats experience dental disease. That accounts for the dental drama, the extractions and excavations and medical ministrations.
It does not account for the greater toothlessness that’s worth our time.
(Greater Toothlessness would also be a tasty name for a band. Everyone who attends their concerts gets a free candy apple.)
If there’s a single secret that’s kept the candles burning at Tabby’s Place for nearly two decades now, it’s this: nobody means to hurt anybody.
This is as true of the cats who bite as the cats who cuddle. Teeth and claws may tattoo our arms, but there’s no meanness beneath the bluster. Fear, certainly; frustration at the limited supply of nuggets and the existence of limits in general, of course.
But meanness? By no means.
We see this, right? Somehow it’s easy to accept that even the scowlers and the scratchers, the brawlers and the howlers, mean us no harm. CAT does not actually wish to end our family line, evidence to the contrary. CAT did not wake up this morning, light a candle, and set the intention, “today, I will draw blood from persons numbering no fewer than five.” CAT does not reflect upon herself in the solarium glass and whisper, “You is vicious; you is merciless; you is going to make the people pay for peopling about, and also singing Kelly Clarkson songs whilst delivering your meager meat-shrapnel.”
They don’t mean to hurt us, and we don’t think otherwise.
We do spend a lot of time thinking about our heroes, and thanking them too: Jonathan (obviously). Gritty (obviously). Bruce Springsteen (you’re sensing a pattern here among gentlemen of a certain caliber).
And, at the peak of the pantheon, top of the pops, riding the Riviera: every single cat who ever dared to dote on us.
Their names are legendary. CAT, the breathing quilt of comfort. CAT, the darling duvet of devotion. CAT, who has been scientifically proven to prefer hugs to ham steaks. (The International House of Cats has convened a tribunal to consider this highly concerning case, and its implications for the species.) CAT, who knows the fear in your legs and knows how to cut its roots and hand you wildflowers in the form of warmth.
Their names are many. But in a way, their names are all and always Ruth.
Fellow theologeeks will recall that, in the Bible, Ruth is the gentle widow who will not leave her mother-in-law’s side, not even when her husband is gone, not even when her financial prospects are better elsewhere, not even when a certain ruthless self-interest would be utterly understandable.
Ruth is not about five-year-plans or stony prudence. Ruth is not about taking the biggest bite of the apple before someone else gets there first. Ruth is meanness-proof, mercy-full, made of patience and presence and the perseverance of love.
Ruth is remarkably catlike.
Perhaps that’s why her name can be translated as both “friend” and “pity.”
Because when the sun goes down (whatever hour of the day) and the fears bite, we’re all a bunch of toothless snapping turtles in need of sweetness.
No sharp words will do. No ginger snaps will feed us. No ruthless plans will vault us to the top of the heap.
(The top of the heap is a terribly lonely place, given that you’ve heaped your friends into submission rather than heaving your heart into friendship.)
Only grace upon grace upon gasping gentleness will carry us through the field of teeth.
And so the cats — the fiery cats and the sleepy snowballs, the fearful cats and the quiet counselors — strap us onto their shoulders. They bear us out into the wheatfield (even though they would greatly prefer the meatfield); they lean gently over each trembling reed, whispering “grow!”; and they teach us how to harvest good intentions from even unlikely sources.
They remind and remind and remind us: we have the means not to be mean.
No one is a means to an end.
We are not going to give up on each other. Not here.
We who have been loved much have so much to give.
The heroes will always be the healers.
And if somebody’s biting, it’s time to change the lighting, dim the harsh overhead interrogation lamps and kindle candles all around the room. Or suite, as the case may be. Assume the best, and fan it into flame. Forgive the rest, and make our gentleness our only fame.
The world admires the ruthless. Tabby’s Place will always take the toothless.
And the toothless will take care of us.