Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, royal family!

Aye, it’s true that St. Patrick’s Day is technically two days away. But as you know, Queen Prescott is not bound to the calendar. Prescott is not even bound by the force of gravity.

And, being Prescott, she has issued a global decree that every living creature is entitled to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day on every day that can be called “today.” In other words: let’s get to it.

Prescott has been dancing a perpetual jig, and who can blame her? She still has stars in her clover-green eyes from all the lucky charms who came to see her at our open house. Prescott was in her glory at Your Feline Valentine, welcoming heroes and legends she had only ever heard about in storybooks. That is to say, you! (Yes, I tell her about you regularly. She has heard your names, and she cherishes each one. You are her family, after all.)

As one sponsor noted, Prescott has an unmistakable glow — an actual aura of light that can be seen. It is the surefire “side effect” of knowing she is loved. As sponsors filled the Lobby to dote on her, she illuminated the proceedings.

Thank you to all who braved the snow to join us. And if you weren’t here in person, be assured that you were here in spirit, and we celebrated you with all our hearts. Prescott paused in our “Kissing Booth” to send you her smooches across the miles.

As she continues to celebrate Valentine’s Day, Prescott is also observing Spring. Did you know that we are entitled to two “first days of Spring”? Well, there’s March 20th, of course. But why wait, when March 1st is “meteorological Spring?” Prescott’s interest in meteorology is generally focused on the distribution of sunbeams in the Lobby. But whatever “meteorological Spring” may be, it is quite welcome.

Perhaps a smidge less welcome is a certain sprightly leprechaun, who arrived while winter’s winds were still howling. Doury is as little as a licorice twist. He is as hairy as a yak, multiplied by a Muppet. He is infatuated with existence — his own, and everyone else’s. Like Stewart before him, he has a mild case of cerebellar hypoplasia, a harmless condition causing him to wobble (he prefers the verb “dance”).

But Doury had a severe case of enchantment with Prescott.

Far be it from Prescott to have a problem with anyone, for any reason, at any time. She could teach us all a great deal about empathy and grace. She is patient with Hips when he goes warp-speed. She is merciful to Murdock when he asks for affection that is rightly Prescott’s (e.g. all affection, from all entities). But she wouldn’t mind if Doury stopped chasing her tail like a rainbow.

And she wouldn’t be out of line to gently bop him with a shillelagh.

This being Prescott, the slap fight lasted a total of four seconds. Prescott instantly regretted it. She got back in the Kissing Booth to do some deep thinking. The next thing we knew, Doury was adopted. We don’t exactly have proof that Prescott put that together, but we don’t have proof that she didn’t, so I’m giving her credit.

With Doury dispatched in the most delightful way, Prescott has been able to resume her royal duties. The first order of business: taking care of those in need. Our benevolent queen has been concerned that Hips, Murdock, and all the Lobby locals may have contracted the late-winter blues. She tried to explain that cats are entitled to an unlimited supply of Springs, but Hips got confused, and Trent thought Prescott meant those little boinky slinky toys, so Prescott had to get the humans involved.

One day, the Lobby cats were grousing, grumping, and goosing each other. The next day, there was a formal request, issued to all 400 Tabby’s Place volunteers: PLEASE SOCIALIZE! This was nothing less than an official decree. Volunteers ages 12 – 90+ were summoned to the Lobby with their feather wands, their ripple rugs, and their squeaking, jingling, crinkling toys of all varieties.

The rollicking rumpus has turned the world right-side-up for everyone involved. Again: we can’t prove that Prescott put this in motion, but you and I know who to thank for any and all instances of “wonderful.”

Speaking of “wonderful,” it is my perennial joy to remark that Prescott’s health is unremarkable. That has nothing to do with luck, and everything to do with your faithful love.

Dear sponsors, I admit that sometimes I almost forget Prescott has “advanced needs.” She is so robust and rambunctious, and so free of complications, the lasting effects of her old injuries rarely cross my mind. But keeping Prescott healthy takes diligence and devotion, from expressing her bladder to keeping her clean. Were it not for this tireless care, our beautiful girl would not be celebrating her health like an every-day holiday.

And were it not for you … well, both Prescott and I are grateful we will never have to finish that sentence. Because you’re here, Prescott lives a perpetual spring.

The leprechauns can keep their gold. It’s your golden hearts that make our little silver moonbeam shine.

Thank you, dear ones, for loving Prescott so generously. May your St. Patrick’s Day and all your springs be sweeter than luck and as large as love.

Love, your correspondent,
Angela