Tabby Here

And when it blinks at you slowly, in that deliberate, languorous way—know that it is not just tired. It is teaching you the oldest prayer:

You are seen. You are safe. Now open a can of tuna.

And the tail—ringed like a raccoon’s, tipped with a final, deliberate dash of ink. That is the period at the end of a silent sentence. When a tabby wraps that tail around its paws, it is not just keeping warm. It is meditating on the physics of the pounce. On the geometry of the window ledge. On the precise trajectory required to knock your favorite coffee mug onto the floor at 4 AM.

So when you see a tabby, do not look past it. See the architecture of wildness tamed just enough to tolerate your affection. See the letter “M” as a crown. See the stripes as a map of a forgotten, ferocious world.