Today the light has gone dark.

My heart has been hurled too hard against the wall of the universe for me to have many words today. I have been four years blessed by the sweetest love anyone can imagine this side of heaven. Every day has been a gift.

No one has a right to a gift, and there’s no sense “expecting” something so lavish. But somewhere along the line, I snuggled deep down into thinking that Webster would simply always be here, like the sun and the stars.

Always in my arms. Always rubbing my face. Always wrapped around me as I type and work and fundraise and pray.

In a fit of emotion this morning, as soon as I learned that today would be the day, I filled out the Tabby’s Place adoption application and paid my adoption fee. Webster has always been mine — but there was something important about making it official.

I’d apologize for my incoherence if I didn’t know that you amazing people understand.

Even as I’m crawling my way through the dark today, I cling to the blessed hope of actual forever, where gifts don’t end and grace is unlimited by heartbeats. I know, even in the depths of this ache, that my sun and stars have not gone out. They have merely been eclipsed by the veil of death.

But a veil it is, and a defeated veil that will again blast open with the full light of Life:

“There are heavenly bodies and earthly bodies, but the glory of the heavenly is of one kind, and the glory of the earthly is of another. There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; for star differs from star in glory.

“So is it with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable; what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power. It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body. If there is a natural body, there is also a spiritual body.

“Thus it is written, ‘The first man Adam became a living being;’ the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. But it is not the spiritual that is first but the natural, and then the spiritual. The first man was from the earth, a man of dust; the second Man is from heaven. As was the man of dust, so also are those who are of the dust, and as is the man of heaven, so also are those who are of heaven. Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the Man of heaven.

“I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:

‘Death is swallowed up in victory.
‘O death, where is your victory?
‘O death, where is your sting?’

“The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

“Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.” (1 Corinthians 15: 40-58)

Our love was not — is not — in vain.

Webster, my sun, my stars, my heart, my love, I will miss you with every heartbeat until the Man from Heaven returns or calls me home. But I would never trade away this agony if it meant missing you this side of the Kingdom of Heaven. When we meet again on that eternal shore, we will know the life that never ends.

I love you with all of my heart.

A cata Morgana is a form of superior feline, resembling a muscle-bound Mario with two “dead” hind legs. Veterinary folks thought maybe he was fixin’ to die.

“Impending death,” however, was just a mirage.

When we first met Morgan, his right hind leg had one speed: stop. The exact pre-Tabby’s Place details are unclear, but there was rain and thunder and an abandoned, dead-legged cat in a Morganville, PA garden. He was neutered and friendly — meaning clearly loved and willfully “lost” — but going nowhere fast. So, on an actual dark and stormy night, our creamsicle cat flew like a Dutchman to Dr. Fantastic.

The news was bad — bad as in, “the Dutch border has been invaded by rabid French horn players” bad. Bad as in, “Donald Trump is moving into your basement” bad.

Bad as in, “Morgan has thrown a blood clot and is fixin’ to diiiiiiiie.”

The technical term for this is a saddle thrombus. If you have the faint sense of deja vu right now, that’s not a mental mirage: Sylvia had the same thing two and a half years ago.

Let the record show that Sylvia is still alive.

Tabby’s Place cats are made of tough stuff, and Morgan would prove no exception. “Thrombus schmombus,” he said. (Which, in Dutch, I think translates to “I’m fixin’ to live and live AND LIVE SOME MORE.”)

We held our breaths through his stay at the specialty hospital. We held our breaths through his Quarantine period. We held his breaths as he flirted with the possibility of having ringworm (which would have meant many more weeks in the bowels of Tabby’s Place’s quarantine area, getting dipped in lyme sulfur). We held our breaths as he cleared Quarantine.

But Morgan was breathing easy — and breathing out joy on everyone who approached him. Once again, we had a case of a cat who had seen the worst but was bent on being a blessing. So he’d been abandoned. So he’d been dealt an ugly hand. Life is about now, and Morgan is about life.

Morgan’s Quarantine cage just so happened to be under Sammy’s. (More on her in the near future. Patience, kittens.) When Sammy’s original rescuers came to visit her, Morgan hammed it up like the Will Ferrell of felinedom. He reached. He meowed. He heaved his hulking head (approximately the size of a blue-ribbon cabbage) into the cage, rubbyrubbyrubbing on the bars. He oozed love and joy and life.

There’s not a bitter bone in Morgan’s body — and that’s a good thing, too, since he’s approximately the size of the Netherlands and made of muscles. His cardiac condition is the only thing fragile about our solid boy.

We’re under no illusions that Morgan’s future is footloose and fancy free. (Although he is the kind of cat who would gladly help a whole town fight for its right to dance, if Kevin Bacon was unavailable. But I digress.) His condition is nothing short of dire, and every day his heart continues to beat is a gift and a victory.

Still, we can’t help but whisper in those giant whelks of his ears: Remember Sylvia.

Diagnoses don’t have the final word, life does. And life wins.

At the moment, the Quarantine ham is offering up a sort of mirage we expect to be quite temporary. Last week, Morgan became Jonathan’s new office-mate (”prodigal son” Gunther has unceremoniously left Jon for the Community Room, and “prodigal baked good” Cookie has unceremoniously left Jon for the lobby-love of Levi and Boots). Since that time, the big cat with the giant spirit has shrunken into himself a bit. Rather than a comedian, he’s an observer, keeping to quiet corners — for now.

"Thromcus schmombus, and rub mah belleh while you're at it."

Just today, for the first time, I saw Morgan stretched out in his full glory. Gone was the fearful circle into which he’d curled those first few days, and long were those magnificent Morgan-legs, yawning forth in comfort and bliss. He’s reviewing the situation, just biding his time before he bursts out into full bloom.

But mark my words: bloom again he shall, and when he does, Morgan will only know one speed: life.

*No, I am not making this up. You really think even I could make up a Flying Dutchman? Old-timey folks had lots of time on their hands, and wild imaginations. If they lived now, old-timey folks would create reality shows and rides at Busch Gardens. Lose gravity and lose your lunch on…The Flying Dutchman!

Good boy. Goooooood boy. You’re my gooboy.

Why do we say this to our cats constantly? What makes them so praiseworthy when they’re eating or staring at us or just being happy?

This post brought to you by the mighty heart of Webster.

I am anything but immune to the Gooboy Phenomenon. If I offer Webster treats and he eats them, I practically whip out the trumpets and party hats. Good boy! Good Webby Webby Webby! If he jumps on my desk and demands affection, the praises start: What a sweet baby Webby! Gooboy!

When our cats do what they want to do, we tell them they are good. When they get what they want, we croon of their goodness. When cats are cats, we can’t help but erupt in praise.

Are we crazy?
Or are we onto something with our effusion of enthusiasm?

I say we are: cats are just that good.

They’re good because they’re ours. They’re good because they’re in our orbit. They’re good because they were created to be magnificent, and because they were destined to be loved by us.

They’re inherently, irrevocably good.

Maybe the most sparkling instance of the Gooboy Phenomenon occurs when we praise cats precisely at the moment when they are getting what they want. They eat the treats which they, themselves, begged for us to give; we proclaim their magnificence. They leap upon the toy we brought home; we crow of their greatness. They delight in what they want…and we call them good.

Isn’t that a sort of wish among us all — to be declared “good” at exactly the moment when we’re happiest? It’s one thing to be called “good” when you’re saving a burning busload of orphans. It makes cool, rational sense to be called “good” if you are without fault and without sin. It’s quite another matter to be anointed “good” when you’re just your ordinary, dented self, doing something that simply brings you joy.

Not selfish. Not guilty. Not lazy. Just…good.

Our cats are never better than when they’re giving us the gift of seeing them happy. Perhaps our Maker is similar when it comes to the sheep of His pasture. If may be that those things that most fill our souls simultaneously bring Him joy…and make Him call us good. If it’s true that He came that we might have life more abundantly, then our highest, truest happiness is His delight. The glory of God is man/woman/cat fully alive. Our rejoicing is a hymn of praise to the Giver of all good things.

It’s been said, in many different wise ways, that what makes a thing/person/cat/three-toed sloth lovely is not so much that he’s lovable, but simply that he’s loved. Cats don’t earn our affection — much less our swoons of “Gooboy!” — any more than we can earn the smile of God.

Love makes them worthy. Love makes them beautiful.

Love makes it all deeply, unstoppably good.

As I type this particular post, love — in the form of one Webster — is sleeping soundly in my lap, his face in his paws. Vigilant human beans may have noticed that I’ve not blogged about Webby much recently. The reasons for this are several:

1. To write about Webby is to write about my love for Webby, which is to write about myself. When it comes to writing about myself…well, do not want.
2. When words are your work and your world, you learn to recognize when words are too weak. I humbly confess that words are way too wimpy when it comes to trying to express how I feel about Webster. Mere words can feel like a betrayal of feelings this strong.
3. #2 has never been truer than the last few months, because Webby…well, he’s not doing splendorously well.
4. Writing about the truth of #3 makes it seem real. And…
5. …I’m honestly not ready for #3 to seem real.

Webster’s treat-eating draws forth an especially profuse stream of accolades now that he’s down to eight pounds. His hugging my arm starts me singing “How Great Thou Art” when I know that every day of arm-hugging is a gift, and no gifts are guaranteed.

His heart is weaker, which means my heart beats louder every time he jumps in my lap…and every time he doesn’t.

All of this unbeknownst to her, an extraordinary woman in North Carolina felt her own heart touched by Webster’s goodness recently. She’s never met him. She was completely unaware of his recent health struggles.

But somewhere in the brightest reaches of her soul (and I have reason to believe that every nook and cranny of this particular human’s soul sparkles like the Hope Diamond), she felt the Spirit move her to send a large box to Tabby’s Place. I can never, in 47,000 lifetimes, fully express how much her actions have meant to me. Sometimes the veil is drawn back and you can actually see God working through a person with the full force of Love. But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Like a little boy on the eighth night of Chanukah, Jonathan bounced into my office with the box. “Look, it’s really big, and it’s addressed to you!” He then proceeded to launch into the box. It was at an angle, so I couldn’t quite see its contents as Jon’s voice suddenly grew hushed. “It’s…Webster.”

“What? No…” I couldn’t comprehend what he might mean. I saw the edge of what looked like a painting, but people don’t do paintings of Webster. “It must be Dot,” I blithered, moron-style. “People do paintings of Dot and –”

Then he turned the box around.
And I was instantly reduced to a blubbering puddle of goo.
Because…well…

Note that this photo utterly fails to do justice to the magnificence of the artist's masterpiece.

Where words fail, art sings. Webster’s luminous eyes in this portrait are truer poetry than has ever crossed a page.

The Love-driven artist behind this miracle — let’s call her Hope — wrote the following:

“This is for you, Angela. I have been touched by the love that you and Webster have for each other, and I wanted to do this painting for you as a gift. Of course, no artwork can ever capture his true magnificence, but I wanted it to express the close bond that you two have, and I hope it is a blessing to you. What a joy it is to know the love of a precious cat in this life, and to know that it will only be greater and better and forever in the life to come! May God bless you with many more happy years together!”

May He indeed. But, meantime, day by day and moment by moment, I’m in awe of the goodness that embraces us all. Our cups runneth over, and we hardly know it until a miracle knocks us off our feet and onto our knees, crying out, “You are a good, glorious God. And this is a beautiful, irrevocably good life. Thank You, thank You, thank You.”

Good people of Felis Catus, if you happen to be reading this and need to hear it today, I hereby proclaim to you: You, too, are a gooboy/googirl. A good, good human. A much-loved human. It’s a true fact.

Thank you from the reaches of my soul — sparkling and otherwise — for your goodness.

I’d venture to say that much of the pain in the world is caused by exclusion. The human world, that is.

Natalie eats lizards; she doesn't contemptuously exclude them.

You instinctively know it when you see it: the way the conversation changes when you walk into the room. The subtle pivot of a shoulder away from you. A “harmless” comment that establishes an “in-group” and “out-group” in a syllable. A single arched eyebrow.

You’re present — welcome to stay, even — but you’re 10,000 miles from the heart of what’s happening. In a flood of words or none at all, it’s clear: you are hereby instructed to note that you are less than everyone else in the room. You are not part of them. Not wanted. Not cool enough.

Not included.

It would cost us so little to show hospitality to each other — but instead we defend our own little empires of self-importance, widening the moat with inside jokes and over-the-shoulder grimaces, all for five minutes of feeling like we’re on the inner ring. It’s cotton candy for the spirit, gone in an instant, with a residue of decay.

I’m the first to admit that I talk a far better game than I play here. I wish I could honestly report that I’m immune to the lures of savoring the “in crowd” at the expense of unwitting outsiders. But, more often than I care to admit to myself, I know I’ve failed to full-heartedly welcome new or awkward faces into the heart of a conversation. I’ve buoyed my own tottering ego with the dollar-store rewards of a moment on the “inside.”

And my soul has suffered for it.

Samantha on her solarium blanket...

For our species, awareness and a certain softness of conscience can help. For our favorite species, no such interventions are needed: cats simply do not exclude. At least, not in the way we do.

Dobro and his harem will exclude you, okay — but that’s because you’re human and they genuinely hate you,* not because you’re not on their “cool list.”

Natalie once ate a lizard, which I suppose you could argue is a form of exclusion — but that’s because she was hungry and he was delicious, not because he couldn’t spar with her intellectually.

Yet a cat will never, ever, ever reject you — or another cat — because you’re a dork, or new, or slow on the uptake, or just plain peculiar. (Which is, needless to say, good news for humans, since, compared to cats, we are all of the above ad infinitum.)

Maybe you dream of being a yak herder or a barge captain, and none of your friends in Harlem understand.
Maybe you love Gary Busey so much it hurts on the inside.
Maybe you eat haggis for three meals a day, and your feet smell like cheese, and you wear umbrella hats to black-tie events.

It’s okay. Come snuggle. You cannot be too uncool for a cat.

...and Steve sharing Sam's blanket.

Perhaps this is why we call cats “cool” in the first place. Maybe “cool” as we usually use it is a misnomer, and the really rad ones are the creatures who abandon all sense of coolness to just plain embrace.

It works within the feline realm, too: witness old man Felix and young woman Sage grooming and spooning. The only things they would appear to have in common are the shared species of felis catus and a history of diarrhea, and I’m fairly confident they did not meet on DiarrheaMatch.com. Yet their adoration for one another is limitless. (And adorable.)

Or consider Steve and Samantha. He’s gregarious, gabby, and averse to the litterbox. She’s terrified, well-behaved, and prison-born. He wants every human to touch him, and he’ll follow your voice in and out (and in and out and in and out) of the suite/solarium as you move between the two, literally exhausting himself trying to stay close to you. She’ll do the opposite, fleeing through the tube in the opposite direction of humanity. But for one another’s company, they stay in one place, sunning and serene.

My favorite example is Levi. You might think — and we did fear — that the Lobby hipsters, with no shy and bashful cats among them, would try to show the 900,000-year-old, blind, deaf tuxedo who’s boss. If ever there were a candidate for exclusion from the in crowd, it would be Levi. But they’ve done no such thing. Boots doesn’t bash him. Jenny, who suffers no fools, walks respectfully around the old man. Even Gunther affords Levi appropriate dignity.

Chase, Chooch and Mayberry demonstrating the highest form of non-exclusion.

I could go on. Ancient Cookie cuddling young gun Boots. Peachy “I Abhor Cats” Rosenberg snoozing within 2″ of Babs “I Abhor Creatures” Rosenberg. Dina and Rangpurr welcoming everyone into their “fort” of a tree in Suite B.

No exclusion. No coolness. No in crowd or out crowd.

Just…grace.

And for us, there’s a perpetual invitation: Come on in; the love is fine.

*Now don’t write me and argue that Dobro and company don’t really hate us. They do. No, really, they truly do. We love them, but some of the cats certifiably hate us. It’s okay. Our therapists are helping us to deal with it.

Photo credits, from the top: Jessica, Mark, Jessica, Jessica, Mark. Jessica + Mark = guaranteed explosion of photographic magnificence. And, just ’cause I think you guys are keen and swell, here’s a photo of Felix and Sage from Staff Jess (taken through the suite glass, so as not to disturb a magic moment):

Felines simply don’t find it worth their time to say “the ramifications and consequences may be salutary” when they could say “it’ll be fine.” They have no need or desire to impress you with their erudition learnin’. They are what they are: take them or leave them.

In other words, cats are not like grad students, bloggers or Piers Morgan. They were born — blessed? — without the need to impress.

At times this can work against our favorite species, at least temporarily. Consider Shadow.

Although she in no way resembles the you-shaped thing you cast behind you when the sun shines, our girl has periodically given the wrong impression. Sometime before coming to Tabby’s Place, she gave some unknown assailant/cat/wolverine/velociraptor the mistaken impression that she was “delicious.” Poor Shadow came to us studded with bite wounds, necessitating a longer-than-lovely stay in quarantine (to rule out rabies).

The bitten-up beauty healed, only to give a few more mixed signals in Suite A. Was she friendly or was she feisty? Yes. Snuggler or snapper? Make that and, not or. Shy? Outgoing? Warm? Enigmatic? Wonderful? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

With no need to sculpt a particular “image,” Shadow was free to be exactly what she was, all her colors flashing in moment-by-moment realness.

A cat so unpretentious would simply need to hold out for a person in search of a big soul.

Well shine the light and blast the sousaphone, because Shadow and her big soul have found their forever.

This week, Shadow went home to a human who knows a thing or two about unpretentiousness. At 91 years of age, Signora Shadow has long since outgrown the younger-human’s folly of trying to prove and posture and preen. (Prancing is another story, as I am uncertain as to how she feels about Prancercise. But I digress.) One of the many advantages of advanced age (in addition to style) is knowing exactly who you are, and having no need to girdle your essence into someone else’s preference.

No pretension here: only love. And the consequences are exceedingly salutary.

Photo credits: Volunteer Jessapalooza. How much does she rock your socks, people? Not to be confused with staff member Jess, who does awesome videos like this. Yes, we are Jessically blessed at Tabby’s Place.

But, despite the 2,952 miles between us, the cats have a grade-A angel in Gilroy, CA.

Fly away with me to the Golden State for this guest post from Benefactor and all-around fount of awesomeness Pat Powell:

The "Powell Section" on the Memorial Walkway at Tabby's Place

“There is a lot to be said for following one’s dreams. That’s right - it is perfectly permissible to have more than one.

“I am such a person - a fifth-generation Northern Californian whose 48-year dream was realized when my beloved San Francisco Giants won the 2010 World Series while I still had my feet planted firmly on the earth. The team’s motto, Together We’re Champions, clearly illustrates that the realization of that dream was a group effort no matter how you look at it (players, fans, management, and the hottest third base coach in the history of the game - but I digress!).

“I became aware of another such dream just over 10 years ago. I was surfing the internet one day at lunch looking for interesting cat-related web sites. I noticed a link near the bottom of the page to a site called Tabby’s Place. I figured I should check this one out. I did, and things have, as they say in the vernacular, never been the same since.

Pat & Dean's beloved newest sponsoree, Levi

“Jonathan (you all know which one I’m referring to) had written an introduction to his dream - building a state-of-the-art cat sanctuary for cats in hopeless situations no matter their age, health, personalities, etc. And all in honor of his very special feline son Tabby.

“At that point in time, the permits had been obtained and construction was about to begin. Jonathan invited site visitors to check back frequently to follow the progress of his dream. He asked readers who shared in that dream to kindly make donations to help it grow. As a result, my wonderful husband and I have been doing just that ever since.

“We began by sponsoring one Special Needs cat and have now acquired a list of ten. We also have the ‘Powell Section’ on the Memorial Walkway leading to Cherny’s Garden (memorializing my late parents, one canine daughter, and seven feline kids of both genders).

“And, we arranged for a monthly sponsor kitty for my mom. I cannot begin to thank Angela (yes, that one) enough for the special handwritten note she included with each monthly update. She did this without fail every month until Mom passed away in January 2012. Despite having dementia the last 18 months, Mom would refer to these letters as being about ‘her cat’ when my brother would read them to her.

Pat's Mom's last sponsored kitty, Dot

“All of this was made possible solely because Jonathan and Sharon chose to share their dream with all of us. We are so lucky! And now, for those who noted the plurality in my dream reference above, I would like to share another dream of mine.

“Several years ago, having realized that I was, without a doubt, a ‘foster failure,’ I began making and sharing cat collars* with rescue groups and shelters wherever they may be. It is difficult, if not impossible, to become emotionally attached to a collar. Someday I hope to hear that a lost cat was able to be reunited with its human family because it was wearing an ID tag attached to a collar I made.

“That really would be a dream come true!”

Gratuitous Webster photo, just because he loves Pat and Dean. And so do I.

From Gilroy to Ringoes, Pat and husband Dean are whispering dreams into realities — not least of all for  Dot, Edward, Hootz, Levi, Max, Mittens, Colleen, Dillinger, Gingko and Hocus.

It’s been accurately stated** that “Tomatoes and oregano make it Italian; wine and tarragon make it French. Sour cream makes it Russian; lemon and cinnamon make it Greek. Soy sauce makes it Chinese; garlic makes it good.”

In the case of our own Gilroy gourmet, “good” is the understatement of the aeon. Thank you, Pat and Dean. We love you (infinitely) more than garlic!

*Pat’s stunning handmade collars are available for sale in the Tabby’s Place lobby. If you’re interested in ordering one, let me know, OK? They are more beautiful than you can imagine, in a spectrum of fabrics, and stitched with expert care.

**And stated by the woman who was both the inspiration for Arlo Guthrie’s “Alice’s Restaurant” and the author of a book called How to Massage Your Cat. I don’t think I could be that cool in 100 lifetimes.

Photo credits from top to bottom: Unknown person on the interwebs; Flangela; volunteer Jess; volunteer Mark; volunteer Jess.

They chase a nine-pound ball of cheese down a steep hill.*

Bleu gets ready to roll

This year’s solemn cheese chase occurred on 27 May 2013.
Bleu was adopted from Tabby’s Place 48 hours prior.
Coincidence?
Bollocks.

At this point it must be noted that Bleu is not a nine-pound ball of cheese. If you’re looking for a nine-pound ball of cheese, glance up the Suite A ramp at Bleu’s mom, Gorgonzola.

Bleu is an 1100 18-pound ball of cheese. And remember that this is Bleu Lite: he was a 25-pound hunk of dairy when he first returned to Tabby’s Place. (“Quelle fromage!” cried Cecille upon his arrival.)

But this weekend, like that ball of Gloucestershire cheese across the pond, Bleu rolled on out of Tabby’s Place. That’s right: the biggest cat with the tiniest voice has been adopted.

Zola does not approve of all this foolery.

We sentimental humans might like to think that mama Gorgonzola found it bittersweet to see her boy leave. They’d just been reunited a few months ago, and for him to roll away so soon was…well, less interesting than fat-free Swiss on a rice cake, apparently. If anything, ‘Zola was perplexed by her son’s sweetness towards humans. You could almost see it in her terrified green eyes: Did I raise this child? Is this really my spawn that’s allowing humans to — ew, ew, ew — touch him?

Bleu’s not slighted in the least. In the immortal words of the great philosopher Will Smith, parents just don’t understand. But Bleu doesn’t need Gorgonzola’s approval to be one happy hunk of cat.

And, once again like that cheese ball barreling down an English hill, Bleu’s adoption is leading an inexorable tumble of adoptions out of Tabby’s Place. We’ll be touching on these in future blog posts, but for now, feast your eyes on this board of hearts:

Each heart indicates an adoption. Each heart is thereby valued at >900,000 kilograms of cheese.

In the immortal words of TobyMac, sometimes things are so dope you can barely cope.

Peace out, my little cheeseheads, and roll on to greater greatness.

*No, I am not making this up. I don’t think I’m awesome enough to have made this up. I am also not making up the fact that the following are actual quotations from the actual British newspaper The Telegraph: “Chasing cheese may be dangerous. It is meant to be.” And, “The right to pursue a cheese, if not specified by the European Convention, is dear to the heart of a free-born Briton.” But of course.

Cyndi Lauper. Neon. Princess phones. Bedazzlers.

But sometimes, good things come back when they should have stayed right where they were.

Boy Bands: in the 90s. Lunch: in your stomach. Cats: in their adoptive homes.

Dazzle (placidly being photobombed by Luigi)

There’s one experience that’s bound to rebound on you whether you’re the Emperor of Bhutan or you live in your parents’ basement and wear your hair like Prince Valiant: Feeling alone. In our sane and sober moments, we know that feelings aren’t facts, and that the truth is that we are never, ever, ever truly alone. Even if we try our darndest and catapult ourselves into the darkest holes we can find, we cannot escape being known and loved and held. What we see is not all that is. We are never alone.

Sometimes I wonder if cats know this.

Kittens don’t — but, then, neither do we when we’re young or new or feeling our smallness. Separate a little catlet from his mom and siblings and he will screeeeeeeeeam with the anguish of 10,000 condemned souls. He does not yet know he is not alone. He will learn. Psychologists talk about self-soothing and having a strong “internal locus of control,” but I think — for cats, if not we mere humans — that it has more to do with recognizing that you’re already and always held. Beloved, even.

Dazzle licketh, with gusto, glee and zeal. (Note that she is in a cage of her own volition. Tabby's Place: a cage-free cat sanctuary where cats choose cages. Le Grande Sigh.)

This spring’s retro cats are rediscovering their belovedness.

May 2013 appears to have a kind of feline reflux. For reasons ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous, people are returning their feline adoptees to Tabby’s Place. We never resent a return — once a Tabby’s Place cat, always a Tabby’s Place cat — but we do ache for the cats in the crosshairs.

Dazzle was returned to Tabby’s Place after six-and-a-half years.

Six-and-a-half years. That’s a Ph.D. program. That’s high school and a half. That’s 134 episodes of Splash.

And these were no mere six-and-a-half years for the dazzling one. As you may recall, circa 2007, many cats suffered terribly during a massive cat food recall. The cats at Tabby’s Place were mercifully spared the toxins. Dazzle, alas, was not so lucky.

But the robust white cat with moon-grey splashes was not alone.

Dazzle compels a belly rub by the mere force of her eyes. Thou shalt rub me. Thou shalt like it. Thou shalt not stop. Resistance art futile.

With veterinary care and miracles and time, Dazzle survived, ultimately unscathed by the assault. It would not, however, be her final crisis.

Another six years later, and Dazzle faced sudden surrender.

I confess the dots don’t quite connect for me in this story. People have their reasons for things, and it is not mine to judge. There was something about a move, a shift, a change in circumstances…and a sloughing-off of a cat who suddenly found herself non-essential to the home that had been hers for six-and-a-half years.

That’s even worse than 134 episodes of Splash.

But undaunted and unalone, Dazzle came back to Tabby’s Place, for which we thank her humans. Say what you may about returns, but it is an act of love to bring a Tabby’s Place cat back to Tabby’s Place when you could take the easier, less-embarrassing route and take them somewhere, anywhere else.

I paused Dazzle-belly-rubbing. Dazzle's eyes immediately bellowed: WHERE YOU GOED???

More miraculously yet, Daz has shown herself to still be dazzleable.

No grizzled veteran, Dazzle has rejected the understandable option of choosing a chip on her shoulder. On your very first visit, the cat who’s just been surrendered will lick your hand and chirp and chatter, rolling around with zest and zip and vim (who were, by the way, the three understudies for Snap, Crackle and Pop — but I digress). I could imagine giving up on letting life dazzle me after being let down so hard. Dazzle imagines no such thing. Life sparkles on.

And she just might be the inspiration another recent returnee needs.

Adopted one year ago, Marion and Yelena were part of our Olympic litter of kittens. Alas, this spring the girls were unceremoniously pole-vaulted back to Tabby’s Place. I don’t know the details. I do know the not-kittens-anymore sisters were afraid and puzzled. They seemed almost uncomfortable in their grown-up bodies, unsure what it would mean to be a non-kitten where they’d once been the cutest littlest smidgens.

A rare shot of Yelena, as captured by Jess.

But even non-kittens aren’t alone. You don’t have to be the cutest or littlest or best or sparkliest to be held.

Marion is already proving that in a new forever home. And Yelena…well, let’s just say her event is the marathon, not the 50-yard dash.

Yelena’s not doing cartwheels. She’s not Adam-level elated. But neither is she moping or griping or sniping or pining. Yelena is okay. She’s relearning the rhythm of letting herself be loved, and we’re letting her go at her own pace (much as, like goofy giddy kids, we’d love to press fast-forward and moosh every inch of her being right away.) An inch more each day, Yelena radiates the calm of a creature quite settled in her okayness. Her circumstances have swerved far from “ideal,” but she retains her peace. (She retains it under the cages in her room right now, ergo the dearth of Yelena photos.)

And you just know our girl will be giving peace a chance in a new home before long.

Luigi licks Dazzle's food. Dazzle licks Luigi. Life is delicious.

As of this post, Daz and Yelena are rediscovering their safety and their hope in a room with rollicking good guys Mario and Luigi.

And for each of them, life gets less lonely with every choice to trust, and to open the door to the love that’s already knocking.

Thus saith the orinch herd: the results are in. Sort of.

Cole making the best of things, as taken by stellar staffer Jess

The following comes with a Shaq-sized disclaimer: None of the following medical details are iron-clad yet.

That said, here goes.

Where we last left our brave marmalade midgets, four out of four had tested FIV+ using the SNAP test. With bitten nails and bated breath, we awaited results of the more definitive FIV antigen test.

I believe in eating our vegetables first, so let’s blast through the bad news: Cole came up FIV+.To be precise, Cole came up “FIV+ with a 94% certainty, to be retested by SNAP test when he reaches the age of six months.”

But now dessert: Chooch was FIV-. Mayberry was FIV-. Chase was FIV-. (All with a 94% certainty, yadda yadda.)

And now the wrenching moment: everybody knows you can’t mix vegetables with dessert. (No offense if you mix creamed spinach with eclairs, you rebel, you.) Since the non-Cole trio were almost certainly FIV-, we couldn’t keep them with Cole — but since there was a 6% chance they were FIV+, neither could we put them with other cats. Since Cole was almost certainly FIV+, we couldn’t keep him with his siblings, or any other FIV- cats — but since his immune system is still developing, and there’s a 6% chance he’ll turn up FIV- in six months, neither could we put him in Suite FIV. This was a kitten without a country. Separation was imminent.

Cole & Qually cuddlin' it up

Everybody knows you can’t separate kittens from all other cats. Still, if we loved them (and we loved them with approximately the heat of 10,000 suns, give or take), we had to do it.

Chooch, Chase and Mayberry remained in the kitten nursery. Like the Little Prince on his lonely voyage, Cole moved into a makeshift mini-nursery.

The men’s bathroom.

No, I am not making this up. Tabby’s Place has approximately 3 men and 872 women of the human variety, so this would be a calm, comfortable place for him.

Well, maybe not comfortable.

If you’ve seen Critters 2 or observed people riding a roller coaster, you may think you’ve heard screaming. You have not. You have heard tiny little weakly squeaks. I say this with authority: you have not heard screaming until you’ve heard the sounds from the Tabby’s Place men’s bathroom.

Clearly Cole had not yet learned the comforting truth that he’s never alone.

But “lonely” never lasts - especially not for orange kittens with funny little close-set eyes and banshee screams.

A volunteer who shall remain anonymous to protect the innocent — let’s just call him Qually — inquired about the screams at lunch one day. Touched to the heart, Qually asked if he might, perhaps, spring Cole from his prison/nursery for a few minutes, as long as he promised to keep him separate from the Lounge cats. The answer was a thrilled-to-ribbons “yes.” (Since Lounge residents Mittens, Skittles, Beatrice and Raja, average age 146, move approximately once per decade, we didn’t anticipate much action.)

For the next twenty minutes, everyone present feasted on a display of pure love. Qually and Cole simply delighted in one another. There was face crawling and chirping and laughing and purring, muffin-making and cooing and cuddling and joy.

Cole approves of his foster home. Photo by Squebecca.

And it turns out Qually was only getting Cole warmed up for a better chapter.

Danielle had sent out an e-plea to our volunteers, asking if anyone might have the space and sweetness to foster Cole, at least until his definitive six-months-of-age FIV test. Monday evening, we got our golden yes from a volunteer angel-human we’ll call Squebecca.

The final golden sparkle on this story: Squebecca has already indicated that she will consider keeping Cole forever. This — like the pendulous medical information in this post — is all still very uncertain.

But love is certainly the one thing that’s testing positive for Cole the kitten. And no test on earth or in heaven can change that.

We sincerely believed Natalie could play nice even without Prozac.

We were a bunch of dunderheads.*

Nat the sweet paradox

Our wild orange woman has always rocked boats (and houses, and Casbahs). Since blazing into Ringoes from Kentucky, Natalie has not experienced one single, solitary dull moment. It’s been her mission not to allow anyone else to do so, either.

Nat is easily the most effusive cat in Suite B. Pick her up, and she’ll rub her entire soul all over your face, complete with bluegrassy purrs and rapturous blinks. Fail to pick her up, and she’ll catapult onto your shoulder from the floor, imposing her affection on you. I’ve seen her do this to 4-year-olds. I’ve seen her do this to a 91-year-old man in a wheelchair. I’ve seen children of all ages melt in the wake of her mushiness. I’m a ball of putty in her paws, and she knows she’s one of my all-time Favorite Cats That Have Ever Been Born.

But Nat is also easily the most volcanic cat in Suite B. Mid-lovefest, something will come over her. If you’re lucky, you’ll see her expression change. On Planet Natalie, it’s a fine line between “I love you more than marshmallows” and “I HATE YOU AS I HATE HELL AND ALL MONTAGUES AND YOU ALSO SMELL LIKE CHEESE.” Rubbing turns to biting. Melting turns to bleeding. Laughs turn to screams. Even if you’re 4 years old. Even if you’re 91 years old.

And then she’ll return to pure affectionate innocence again.

Even asleep, Nat looks a bit nervous.

Given this whiplash behavior, combined with her ever-volcanic ways with her own species, we started Natalie on Prozac shortly after her Tabby’s Place debut c. 500 BC. This has kept a lid on our little volcano’s violence. (OK, a loose lid. Maybe more like Saran Wrap. But still an improvement.) Truly, Nat seemed happier without her tendencies towards warfare. I’ve been told by People Who Are Smarter Than Me that Prozac works best in cats whose “problem behaviors” are rooted in anxiety. So, it would stand to reason that Natalie herself felt less anxious - hence the decrease in her maulings of other beings.

In her 2613 years on Prozac, Natalie’s done just beautifully. So it was with fear and trembling and hope that we agreed to wean her off the drug this spring. Maybe she didn’t need it anymore. Maybe we’d broken her brutal habits once and for all.

And maybe I am, in fact, the Queen of Spain.

This week, Natalie greeted a certain staff member who shall remain anonymous, but whose name may or may not rhyme with Splane, in a most notable way. No sooner had brave Splane entered the room, than did Natalie launch onto Splane’s leg, claws out, screaming and tearing and riding aforementioned leg “like a hobo jumping a freight train.” (Those are Splane’s own words.)

No diet on heaven or earth would make Adam calm...but this one did make him less likely to annihilate his neighbors. Winning!

That wasn’t all. Nat fought cats. Nat fought humans. Nat was clearly anxious…and angry…and ready to assault everything.

Nat was on the fast track to a Prozac encore.

It was another staff member - let’s call her Fanielle - who gave Natalie a reprieve from her medication. Although Prozac is typically well-tolerated, and certainly an improvement over a Suite B bloodbath, any medication has its long-term risks - and any medication makes a cat “less adoptable” in the eyes of most humans. So Fanielle suggested one last thing before going back on the ‘zac: The Calm Diet.

The Calm Diet contains magical substances like tryptophan and hydrolyzed milk proteins and fairy dust to “help maintain the cat’s emotional balance.”

I am not making this up. There is a Calm Diet. Yes, really. This is a thing.

And lest you accuse us of quackery, this appears to be a thing that works.

We were as skeptical as you’d be if you heard Megadeth was merging in a supergroup with The Wiggles. The Calm Diet! we whooped. Maintaining the cat’s emotional balance! We cackled.

Nat prepares for the sweet taste of success. Calm never tasted so good.

And then we fed. We watched. They calmed.

Adam stopped pummeling cats. Violet dropped the “N” from her name. Virginia stopped flattening neighbors. Suite C was soothed (well, somewhat). The Calm Diet was the thing.

I’m the first to admit that we may well be seeing what we’re looking for. There’s no pure scientific way to measure whether or not cats are calmer. But we’re becoming believers.

The wizards behind the Calm Diet state that it’s “formulated to support cats in situations associated with stress and anxiety.” Well, steal my socks and call me Feetsie if that doesn’t describe a situation called Being Alive for Natalie. Even when she sleeps, our little orange enigma has one ear alert to action, anxious and excited and all atwitter. Some cats (and humans, present company included) are just more prone to experience life in full, oft-overwhelming color. Nat’s not a bad cat (as if there were such a thing) - she’s just exquisitely sensitive. And, when it all gets to be too much, instead of burrowing under a blanket or watching a Downton Abbey marathon, she works it out by reenacting There Will Be Blood.

Sometimes we all need a little help getting calm…and if that help tastes good and brings a reprieve from Prozac, I know one little Kentucky volcano who’s ready to eat up.

*Be it known: AutoCorrect accepts “dunderheads” as a word, but not “dunderheaded.” Just like a thesis adviser.

**I know I don’t really need to tell you this, but be it known that neither I nor Tabby’s Place are officially endorsing the Calm Diet. Maybe the Calm Diet will work for you, but maybe it will turn your cat into a giant naked mole rat. And that would be sad. So please, if your cat is a Natalie-flavor maniac, talk to your vet/behaviorist/exorcist, OK?