We try not to have favorites at Tabby’s Place.
We fail.
“We” is all-inclusive of our furred and non-furred delegations.
In a sense, to come to Tabby’s Place is to become an instant all-time favorite. For instance, newbie Jeffy didn’t know what hit her when she arrived, only that she was suddenly the hit song on all of our charts. Long-limbed noodleheads tied themselves in knots over her beauty, splendor, and grace. Tall two-leggers fell over each other to fall in love with her. This was all within the first fifteen minutes of her arrival.
(Curiously, the same smitten simpletons felt the need to groom her with the world’s tiniest toothbrush, whilst mumbling how this is the way we test for ringworm. Peculiar, these poultry-bearing primates.)
But stick around long enough (e.g., the approximate length of three average purrs, divided by one Meat Loaf song), and you will have favorite favorites.
And your favorites will know.
There’s a reason Grecca goes all giddy and wry when I pass by, a greedy little grin overtaking her gigantic little face. (This is not a typo. Grecca transcends size. Also gravity, logic, and metaphysics.) Co-conspiratorial, she leans in and whispers, “you love me big, don’t you?”
(By “whispers,” I mean “Grecca-whispers,” by which I mean SHOUTS AT EXTRAORDINARY VOLUME FOR EXTRAORDINARY LENGTHS OF TIME WITHOUT PUNCTUATION.)
And I do.
It’s not because she is brilliant (which she is; she will show you her 35 Medieval literature theses upon request). It’s not because she is breathtaking (which she is; she has put in a request to the State of New Jersey to have her name formally changed to Living Splendor). It’s not even because I relate to her on levels both sublime and ridiculous (lots of joy, check; lots of anxiety, check; terminal inability to shut up, CHECK).
It’s because she is Grecca, and I am Angela, and there is no accounting for the love that says, “oh, there you are.”
Oh, there you are: a friend who was meant to bend my life into its proper shape, long before we ever met.
Oh, there you are: a kindred heart who fits mine like a mercy-mitten.
Oh, there you are: a spirit I recognize, seemingly from long before either of us were born.
Oh, there you are: a singular star I never knew I was always waiting for. And now that I know you, the sky will never feel as lonely again.
We each have our lists. Jostling my podium beside Grecca are my soulmate-sister-friend Prescott, who dances with me and resurrects me and listens to my secrets; and Trifecta, who dreams with me and gleams at me and seems to be Mister Rogers returned in FeLV+ feline form; and Fergie, who suffers no fools but lets me in the pool of her hazel eyes anyway.
And telling you this, I immediately feel guilty.
The others are my favorites. They are all my favorites. To be a cat is to be my favorite, and to be a Tabby’s Place cat is to be my favorite favorites, and…and still love is louder and larger in certain faces.
Cats do not face this particular anguish.
Feline favoritism hits differently than its human counterpart. While we worry about making any cat feel lower than number one, our feckless friends are sprinting up the podium without a glance back.
We want to ensure that they all feel like secure, special, fully-flavored favorites.
They’re carefree-ly claiming their titles as their all-time favorites.
When Juel makes his list of the 50 Greatest Mandolin Solos of All Time, #1 – 50 are Juel. (“I am music. I am rhythm. I am a meat-seeking missile.”)
When Gator writes his New York Times opinion piece on the 100 Finest Moments of the 21st Century, #1 – #100 are Gator. (“I am history. I am mystery. I am the beginning of the beginning.”)
When Theodosia is asked, “who is the best, better than all the rest?” she is somewhat concerned that you would even ask (“what next, ‘is cheese proof of God’s existence?’ Some answers are too obvious to question, biped”). But once she gathers herself and remembers that you are a mere mammal, she answers, “Theodosia. And not just because Angela sings Tina Turner songs to me every Wednesday, although that’s welcome.”
When any cat is asked, “do you feel bad that someone feels bigger feelings for some other cat than you?” They hardly know what to say.
All of their feelings are enormous. Why rank beloveds when, instead, you can be your own much-loved, and then celebrate with a vat of vaguely salmonish gelatin?
Why worry who’s warming someone else’s heart, when you’re your own heat source?
Why play favorites, when you can play, period, and life is one grand saucy slip-‘n-slide?
Maybe the cats don’t worry who loves who best, because they know there’s boundless “best” to go around. Love is so stunningly sloppy and sacred, everyone is someone’s favorite. Love is so limitless, everyone is Love’s own favorite, as though they were the only one.
And at Tabby’s Place, and everywhere real love lives, the podium is poppin’ at the top and empty at the bottom.
Everyone can be the wonderful one, together.
I do not know how this works, only that feline arithmetic is impeccable.
Grecca wrote a thesis about it, so I know it’s true.
Every cat is my favorite. Impossible to choose only one. Theodosius may ask Tina Turner “what’s love got to do with it,” but she knows love is everything at Tabby’s Place!