Chers amis,

Ouvrons grand les jeux!

Pardon me. The Games of the XXIII Olympiad may be over, but I’m afraid my heart is still bobbing in the Seine. Did you have a bit of Paris Olympics fever, too?

Am I the only forty-three-year-old wondering if I might still qualify for the Pole Vault?

What does any of this have to do with Prescott? Glad you asked.

The answer: Ouvrons grand les jeux!

Queen Prescott gave Paris permission to borrow her personal motto as the rallying cry of the Olympic Games. The translation is, “Games wide open!” As you and I know, this is precisely how Prescott lives her life.

The moment Prescott’s peridot eyes pop open each morning, the games begin. Life is not perfect, but it is life, so it is glorious. Life is not predictable, but who ever said that was preferable? Life is not all fun and games, but Prescott is working on that.

In a way, every cat is their own sovereign nation, and sometimes they bristle against each other’s borders. Not so our Prescott.

In a month of many new arrivals, our girl was a graceful ambassador. She welcomed elderly Oliver with an invitation to play, but no hard feelings when the answer was “non.” Oliver is more inclined to spectate than sprint, stretching his cinnamon stripes in the track — I mean, hallway — between the Lobby and Quinn’s Corner.

I wish you could watch Oliver in non-action, because this is a cat who smiles with his eyes, as crinkly as a good grandfather. (My wish will not be granted, because by the time you read this update, Oliver will be settling into his forever home. Gold!)

Prescott is more of a sprinter than a long-distance runner, but she has overcome the urge to hurdle over drowsy Oliver. Our darling is a diplomat, after all.

Prescott was the first to greet the youngest member of Team Lobby, a pocket-sized break dancer named Stewart. The tiny tabby was born with neurological condition causing him to tremble and lose his balance.

That’s what the record says, anyway. Prescott says, “bollocks.” Prescott says Stewart is the gold medal favorite for Rhythmic Gymnastics — you know, the event where acrobats leap around with streamers. Trade those ribbons for a wand toy, and you have Stewart.

But, between feats of international relations, Prescott is an elite athlete in her own right. I am delighted to report that her health remains impeccable, thanks to your generous care. This frees her to excel in everything she attempts.

Prescott is the dreamiest of divers, making swans swoon as she leaps to and from the reception desk. (Prescott has petitioned the International Olympic Committee to recognize “reverse diving,” the difficult sport of mocking gravity.)

Although she has lately delegated administrative duties to Cora, Prescott pops out of the pool to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with every visitor. The moment a person arrives, be it Emmanuel Macron or the dryer repair man, Prescott is on the beam, delivering head-bonks and bienvenues.

Then it’s back to rough-and-tumble Rugby with Hips, Trampoline with Boobalah (in a sophisticated variation that includes sleeping, rather than leaping), or Prescott’s premier sport, Pentathlon.

Much like an incontinent cat with a painful past, Pentathlon does not get much air time. The world’s channel-flippers want immaculate kittens and perfect-ten gymnasts.

But you, dear sponsors, know where to find gold.

You hear the anthem of a silver cat who needs her bladder expressed and her forehead kissed. At the top of your podium is Prescott, with all her needs and nuances.

You tune in for the Pentathlon.

Being Queen, Prescott has adjusted this sport ever so slightly. You will not find her Fencing (unless you count her brief jousts with Smokey, which have fortunately diminished). Freestyle Swimming involves water, so that is out. Pistol Shooting is loud and might scare Stewart, so Prescott has banned it from the realm.

Equestrian Show Jumping remains, as Prescott pretends that Hips is a Pegasus and attempts to catch a ride.

Cross Country Running is, of course, Prescott’s supreme forte, even though impolite humans have now gone so far as to post a WANTED poster of both Prescott and Hips on the Quinn’s Corner door, to prevent our athletes from training properly. (This is, of course, preposterous. Perhaps even a war crime. Can you imagine anyone putting a blockade in the middle of the track while Noah Lyles was trying to set a world record? Or depositing a Loch Ness Monster in the pool while Katie Ledecky was doing flip turns? Still, Prescott is patient with us. By which I mean, she ignores the sign and runs like the wind.)

Prescott’s Pentathlon includes Porpoising, the world’s most perfect sport. This involves arching her back into a smile and administering a head-bonk of Herculean force into your hand or shin or (if you are very lucky) face. For an instant, she is airborne, a wry half moon filling your moment with light. It is her best sport. It is my favorite sport. It is the answer to a bad mood, a bad day, and geopolitical tensions.

It would have been out of the question, if not for you.

But here she is, Queen Prescott, once precarious, forever precious, utterly Great and Good … porpoising for gold.

If you’re keeping count, that leaves one last piece of Prescott’s Pentathlon. And this brings us right back to the Opening Ceremonies. As pristinely as she porpoises, as splendidly as she sprints, Prescott’s best event will always be Loving.

As I watched the Olympics, I couldn’t help but think of Prescott. (OK. Whether I am reading the back of the Raisin Bran box or watching a commercial for dryer sheets, I can’t help but think of Prescott.)

Ten thousand athletes, from New Jersey to Namibia, from royals to refugees, sailed down the Seine. Up to a billion people, precious and precarious in our own ways, watched.

For an instant, we were all children together again.

We were all sailing in the same direction.

We were all a bit like Prescott, the cat who chooses to see the great and the good in every living creature.

The Olympiad may be over, but Prescott keeps going for gold. Thanks to you, she lives secure atop the podium of unconditional love. Thanks to you, life is not perfect, but it is miraculous.

Ouvrons grand les jeux!

Merci beaucoup!

Je t’aime pour toujours,
your correspondent,
Angela