Good morning, dear Gigi.
Forgive my peasant ways. Here I am, rushing in on a first-name basis, wearing a sweatshirt with a marinara stain from 2007, forgetting to curtsy.
I’m not even sure what title befits your dignity.
Should I address you as Your Eminence? Is it Your Grace?
Or may I call you Geege?
I don’t mean to be informal with a member of the royal family. I know there is protocol around this sort of thing, with etiquette for everything from salad forks to oyster plates.
Dangit, I didn’t even bring you the customary offering of oysters. Will you accept some Party Mix treats instead? At least they are shaped like hearts.
And so, Geege, are you.
That is my only excuse for skipping the ceremonials. There’s word around the realm that your crown was handmade, with hundred-carat kindness. Your jewel is gentleness. You have been loved so well, you will let any old ragamuffin join you for tea.
Is it true, Geege?
All the little people — and I do mean people, since cats all share the rank of Sovereign — say that you were loved, and loved, and loved. You were loved by someone who lived for your Corgi-short legs and sticky-toffee stripes.
She loved the way you sipped from the bathtub spout, just like Queen Elizabeth I. (You tell me this is in the historical record, and I believe you.)
She loved your eyes, emerald brooches beyond price.
She loved the stubby scepter of your tail, which did all the talking, since you were shy. She loved you shy. She loved you for you.
She loved you past the gates of this life. And since love is stronger than death, she loved you all the way to this peculiar palace we call Tabby’s Place.
Now, you are surrounded by people who give you turkey crackers and call you Geege.
I would understand if you put a moat of alligators around your heart. Why should you believe that love could come twice in a lifetime? It would be far safer, far more proper, to keep your drawbridge up.
It is a dangerous thing, letting rumpled people galumph through your front door. They may not know how you like to be loved. They may chug the fancy tea like Gatorade, or try to kiss your forehead before you are ready. They may knock all the crumpets of caution on the floor.
But you let us love you anyway, imperfect and improper as we are.
And that, Geege, is how we know you’re a queen. You look at the heart, not the surface.
This is why I’m so bold as to think we might be related, you and me.
‘Cause here’s the thing, Geege. We loved you when we heard you were a “plain brown tabby.” We loved you when we realized you were regal. We love you when you hide from us. We love you when your eyes smile.
We love you with the patience more powerful than pomp.
We love you like the only thing that deserves to be called royal: family.
And we never loved you more than the moment your blood glucose stormed the castle and raised a rogue sigil: “diabetic.”
Diabetes is inconvenient and expensive. It decrees daily injections and a delicate diet. It sticks a fork in the road with two options: “we’re in this together” or “my queen is in another castle.”
It sends mere “fans” scrambling. They clutch their pearls. They transfer their affection like a ticket to a better attraction. They say, “thank you for your hospitality, but we’ll be going now.”
They never get to experience your grace.
If only they had dared to call you Geege. But that’s reserved for family.
Once someone goes from “Gigi” to “Geege,” only one option remains on the table. It is a dish of prescription cat food, no fancy fork required. It is a precious new protocol, with insulin every twelve hours.
It is the royal wedding of need and nurture.
It is you, gentle Geege, first in line to the throne of love.
Long live the queen!