Thanksgiving

by tess

We have two gray stray cats who hang out at our office. The nurses from the plastic surgery office next door pet them. The counselors from the drug rehab center across the office park talk to them. And we feed them. The cats have been here for years and must be scrappy little dudes to have fought off interlopers who want a cut of their prime territory.

I don't know what everyone else calls them, but since they're virtually indistinguishable, we call them both Mr. Gray. Mentally, I refer to them as Mr. Gray and Mr. Grey because everyone deserves a special name. Not special like Apple or MoonUnit, but special in the you-may-be-just-a-stray-but-someone-somewhere-thinks-you're-a-very-good-baby-who-deserves-a-name sort of way.

Anyway, Welli and Qman have decided that they're not terribly fond of one particular brand of wet food so I brought it to the office. On days when we give Mr. Gray and Mr. Grey the wet food, they lose their minds in pleasure. Seriously, Tom-Cruise-on-Oprah's-couch frenzied pleasure like you and I wish we could experience at some point in our lives. But won't.

And that's the meaning of Thanksgiving for me this year - as bad as things might be for these little guys, they're deeply and overwhelmingly grateful for 65 cents worth of love. I think there may be a lesson there for us. Or maybe not.