…and you’ll get to smoosh the sweetest Sir Prize.

There’s unsurprisingly grand news in store for our big-eyed baby this week, and he’s sending smiles as far as South Carolina.

Where we last left our little smooshkin, Sir Prize had just been given the gift of life. Since then, he’s taken that gift and made it sing.

Webster and I can hear the singing in Ringoes, even though we haven’t gotten to see much of Sir Prize just yet. That’s because he’s safely, cozily ensconced at home with foster mama Denise.

Now, Denise has loved a lot of cats. Denise has loved more cats than you could fit on an aircraft carrier…more cats than there are Priuses at an Al Gore lecture…more cats than there are marshmallows in a bowl of Lucky Charms…more cats than the artist formerly known as the artist formerly known as Prince has had names. I dare say that Denise has loved even more cats than there are delis in Ringoes (though it’s close…this non-metropolis is wall-to-wall delis).

I offer this information as context for something Denise told me this morning. You know, she said, I think Sir Prize is the most affectionate cat I have ever met.

These are no idle words coming from the ultra foster mama who has loved more cats than there are studded jackets at a Heart concert. (OK, I’ll stop.)

He head-bonks (with his tiny…little…head). He nose-to-noses. He tucks his (tiny little) head under your chin and purrs you into bliss. He doesn’t bite, or scratch, or think dark thoughts. He is, quite possibly, the ultimate AngelKitten.

But he’s not been spreading any of his sparkles and rainbows here at Tabby’s Place.

Why? Before you assume that Denise just wants Sir Prize all to herself, there is a method to her madness. Much as we all want in on the fiesta of Sir Prize smooshing, we don’t want this still-recovering angel to get sick again. Alas, our Quarantine wing has become ground zero for The Bubonic Plague an obnoxious upper respiratory infection. Walk back that way, and you’ll hear our new Transylvanian cats snuffling and snorkeling and letting out the most pitiful meows ever to clobber your heart. We expect Andora, Pantera, Pugsley, Morticia and Drusilla to all make full recoveries (more on them next week)…but we don’t want to take any chances with the little prize who was thisclose to never making it out of the Cracker Jack box of doom in the first place. (Cracker Jack box of doom? Angela, congratulations: you have officially gone ’round the bend.)

So, for now, Sir Prize lives out his Quarantine period in cozy safety, smooshed quite ably by Denise. (She is, after all, a Veterinary Technician. Not just anyone can administer the sort of smooshing required for such a soul as Sir Prize.) He’s made a near-miraculous recovery (thank you, Barry), and has apparently all but forgotten whatever put him in his predicament…and in our lives. Denise and Dr. C’s best guess is that our little Sir suffered some kind of trauma (perhaps a fall), which left him unable to move normally. This, in turn, led the very young kitten to be abandoned by, or lost from, his mama and siblings. When he became malnourished, his tender immune system weakened, and he was soon prey to vile and vicious fleas and ticks who nearly sucked him dry of blood. And so he was a nearly-blue prize, desperate for Barry blood when he arrived at Tabby’s Place.

But the nearly-bloodless wonder is a strong Sir today, and he’s earned his own private castle in Denise’s heart despite the fact that she’s loved more cats than there are ghastly metaphors in this post. As he gets a little bigger, Sir Prize will take a visit to our X-ray room so we can see whether his still-weebly wobble is due to a lingering injury, and if there’s anything we can do.

Meantime, there’s a lot of smooshing to deliver…to Sir, with love.

Tags: barry, sir prize

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