If you feel beleaguered, be of good cheer.
You get to be in league with the ultimate lovables.
We make a big deal about cats’ sense of joy, and well we should. They are self-pity-proof starchildren, capable of stopping a speeding moment and making it their entire world. A hasty hug, a hunk of cheese, or the Hunt for Red Dot (soon to be a major motion picture starring Harrison Ford and Hips) can make them happier than most bipeds experience in an entire month.
They are gleeful.
They are mindful.
They are grateful.
But let us never pretend that they are not also exasperated.
A solid 80% of their grievances have to do with having to live among slow-learning sluggards who ooze at the speed of Jabba the Hutt, whilst being blind to the pleasures of expanding to Hutty dimensions. I speak, naturally, of you and me.
Why, SUITECCAT pleads, the last ounce of patience dribbling from his eyes, must wet food be delivered only twice a day, in offensive tiny trapezoids marketed as “French fry dishes,” when there is neither fried food nor a Frenchman in sight? (Cats have a stubborn fascination with Emmanuel Macron, despite my having repeatedly informed them that he is not composed entirely of macarons.)
Why, HAIRYCAT whines, must shaggy cats be groomed with goofish brushes, when cats can make their own salon appointments with their own tongues on their own schedules, “never” being a fully acceptable option? Are they not independent adults with a right to grow mats thick enough to thatch a roof? Do they not have the same right as any college freshman to protest fascism and bathing, which may or may not overlap? (Cats have a wistful longing for the college experience, despite my having repeatedly informed them that there is no degree program in Sausage Chain Management.)
Why, CATHATESCATS grumbles, must cats not named CAT do both “stuff” and “things,” including inhaling air and exhaling foolishness, in the same Tabby’s Place where CAT has chosen to live? Are there not other places, perhaps Kinshasa or Katmandu or Kohl’s? (Cats have a deep affection to Kohl’s, despite my having repeatedly informed them that Kohl’s Cash cannot be redeeemed for crabcakes.)
Why, every single cat in every single suite sighs, must humankind universally consider itself kind of good at singing? How else to explain the ear-force assault they unleash when they think other humans aren’t listening? And if they must “sing” in order to live, which seems apparent (and cats are benevolent overlords who will not deny us life-sustaining biological processes), why must they choose Taylor Swift and Harry Styles when the entire ABBA catalog is right there? (Cats have an unwavering devotion to ABBA, despite my having repeatedly informed them that this is not an acronym for All Bacons Become Available.)
Why is life so exhausting?
Why must the whole league of cats lace up their stripes every morning and deal with it again?
Why do they put up with humanity at all?
Because cats know: the putting up, lacing up, and showing up are the only path towards growing up. And despite my having repeatedly informed them that their best quality is their childlikeness, cats are determined to be adults.
Exceptional adults.
Irrepressible adults.
And arguably the most responsible adults in the room.
Because cats can admit, as they wake up on each of the day’s eighteen mornings (each waking begins a new dawn), that they are elated and exasperated, joyous and jumbled, beleaguered and bedazzled all at once.
They growl and say grace in the same honest voice.
They love us unconditionally and let us know how we can be lovelier (which is to say, feed them at the crack of all eighteen dawns, and don’t forget the nighttime snacks for all eighteen sunsets).
They beset us with bliss and beseech us to behave better (which is to say, loll with them like a jillion Jabbas the Hutt rather than jittering about with meaningless matters related to neither food nor sleep).
They can be beatific, saintlike in their sweetness, and be outraged, beside themselves with self-interest, all in the space of a second.
And we love them for it.
And we get to be in league with them, if we’re brave enough.
So let’s be honest and whole. Let’s marvel at CAT’s eighty-foot whiskers, and CAT’s inexhaustible empathy, and CAT’s inexhaustible exhaustion, and the existence of meteors and walruses and each other. Let’s tell the truth about our troubles and our trials and our ticked-offenses, and the nonexistence of peace and free parking and marriage proposals from Emmanuel Macron.
Let’s be the league of life-lovers brave enough to be leaguered, too.
Despite what you may have been informed, you can be grateful and gritty and grumbly and glowing all at once.
Be of good cheer: you’re in good company.