Dear Sponsors,
THANK YOU!
THANK YOU!
THANK YOU!
We now return to your regularly scheduled update.
Oh, who am I kidding?
There is nothing “regular” in the realm of Queen Prescott the Great and Good. If our silver comet is one thing, it’s “exuberant,” and she has (gently) ordered me to commence the thanksgiving early.
But, as you know so well, our leaping lady is many miraculous things at once. She is exuberant, yet elegant. She is grateful and graceful. She loves to laugh at herself (the best and noblest souls always do), but she can turn as earnest as a poet in an instant.
As the leaves curl and the world turns cold and crunchy, it strikes me that Prescott strings her hours together like pearls. Cats are known for their ability to live in the moment, but the cat who almost ran out of moments raises this to an art form.
Just consider a day in the life of Prescott.
When I arrive at Tabby’s Place, I typically find our lady in a bagel-bed behind the reception desk. “Where is my queen?” I cry. (My fellow humans have learned to ignore my frippery.) Prescott lifts her head and smiles with her eyes. She knows I will fly to her side, and many forehead kisses commence. Then it’s back to dreaming, just a little longer.
But Prescott’s dreams are whole-wheat things, meant to nourish the day. She is gathering up her inner glitter to sprinkle all over the world.
She is also gathering her strength to gallop.
That is precisely what she shall do for the better part of the day, outrunning the white rhinoceros we have all agreed to pretend is a cat. Hips is a high-speed pudge-monster, but he is no match for his best friend. Halloween’s hullabaloo has encouraged fresh buffoonery, as Hips and Prescott vault across the lap of Ezekiel. The enormous plastic skeleton sits on a Lobby couch every autumn, and some of our feline comedians sleep in his lap.
Not so Queen Prescott. She has poetry to write.
Once she has thoroughly tired out Hips (a cat we once thought inexhaustible), swapped a few secrets with Photini, and commanded no fewer than twenty treats from no fewer than four volunteers, Prescott can begin the day’s real work.
She reports to Jonathan’s office, barred by an extra-tall baby gate. This is intended to protect Jonathan’s office mate, mercurial Marcia, from incursions by Hips (who cannot scale it) and Photini (who can, and does, in preparation for the 2024 Olympic pole vaulting team).
Prescott was once such a sliver of silver that she could nearly slip between the bars, but that was many turkey dinners ago. She is now softer and more glorious. Besides, she has no intention of entering Jonathan’s office. She wants to sit at the threshold and recite poetry.
If you have ever heard Prescott’s meow, you will understand that it is not a meow. It is language. It is an invocation. It is a benediction on all living beings, who are better for having heard her thoughts.
OK, it is also a request/demand/decree for poultry product. But sonnets come in all flavors.
Jonathan may hold the title of Founder and Executive Director, but he accepts the chain of command and bows before the queen. (Prescott is seriously considering making him a knight of her realm.) Treats, compliments, and — most importantly — complete stoppage of Jonathan’s work achieved, Prescott trots off, satisfied.
I would be remiss if I didn’t report that there are a few ooky oysters between Prescott’s pearls. (One of them is the inexplicable absence of “oysters” from the menu. And we dare to call these feasts “fancy”?) Our ladyship is less than giddy about getting her bladder expressed, and her invocations turn to indignation for these fleeting moments.
But I am convinced Prescott knows that our gifted staff is helping her.
Even more, I am grateful that my job description does not involve “helping” her in this way.
No, my job description includes fundraising, storytelling, and saying “thank you.” And it is the last of these tasks that is Prescott’s first and best gift. The secret of exuberance is thanksgiving.
Perhaps this is the secret of royalty, too.
A true queen abounds in grace, and it is a short step from grace to gratitude. Prescott knows that her life is a capital-G Gift, worth ten thousand Thanksgiving dinners and all the floats in all the parades since the world’s first song. She knows, which is why she lives so joyously and gives without counting the cost.
Consider a single sunset in the life of Prescott.
The last pearl was rolling down the hours, and I was packing up for the night. For reasons I scarcely remember, my heart had sunk below the horizon. Perhaps we’d said goodbye to a friend at Tabby’s Place. Perhaps I simply felt my smallness. As I trudged through the automatic doors between Quinn’s Corner (where my office is located) and the Lobby, a single meteor made way for my grief.
Prescott sensed an emergency and hurtled down the hallway, erupting in exultation. I had seldom heard her so talkative, insistent that I hear her out. I reached to pet her, and she leapt halfway in the air, like a pony. I was comforted in an instant. We laughed together. The same littleness that left me feeling lost now made me feel like a kitten, a pearl, a child of the same universe where a cat named Prescott prevails.
In thanks for this healing, Prescott had but one request: “thank my sponsors. Thank them in all caps. THANK THEM IN ALL CAPS.”
And so:
THANK YOU!
THANK YOU!
THANK YOU!
Beloved sponsors, your kindness is the feast that keeps our queen healthy and our hearts strong. You are the reminder that this rumply, bumpy world is marbled with grace.
You will be close to Prescott’s heart and mine as we give thanks on the fourth Thursday of November…and all the other pearly days, besides.
May your Thanksgiving leave you wonderstruck with joy.
Love, your correspondent,
Angela