World leaders, policymakers, miscellaneous ice cream persons and yak herders, may we have your attention?
We realize you are occupied with a world of grief and war. The sorrows seem intractable. Love limps along.
But today, on International Women’s Day, we would like to submit our answer to the planet’s problems.
Put a woman in charge. A feline woman.
Wait, wait, don’t hang up.
We know we are just a cat sanctuary in a drowsy backwater called Ringoes, New Jersey. No, we have not been able to recruit Ringo Starr as our mayor. Yes, New Jersey is where 95% of barbarians live, but at least we don’t have to pump our own gas.
Hear us out. Tabby’s Place is a habitat for heroes who might save us all.
We have an astronomer. When feline leukemia virus (FeLV) came for Batty, she did not blame the stars. The worst day of her life was in the same constellation as the best. Love connected the dots. Batty’s big need was mercy’s big chance.
All the sorrow brought her to Tabby’s Place. We took the little black cat from sorrow’s hands, thanked sorrow politely, then pushed it out the airlock. Now, Batty soars and snores in bliss. She is reconsidering her flight paths, lowering her shields. She follows the sun and the scent of squeeze-treats to good mornings worth every long night.
We have a peacemaker. Willow took root in our Lobby as the littlest paraplegic. But our sapling stood tall on two good legs. Some leaders are born, and some leaders are born scooting.
Willow will not rest as long as there are cats who refuse to frolic. Willow understands the path to peace is paved with shenanigans. Willow leads the way in strategic scampering, and also making jokes about how stupid humans look in pants.
Willow commands camaraderie among such disparate factions as Corduroy, Trent, and Olive.
Speaking of Olive, we have a president. I mean, prime minister. I mean, queen. I mean, head chef. I mean, editor in chief. I mean, pope. I mean, duchess empress exalted supreme ninja supergenius mastermind modest humble icon.
I did not say she was democratically elected, but she will surely have a leading role in mending the world.
We have a chemist. Lornadoone may appear to be our most unstable compound, capable of forming unbreakable bonds and breaking skin in the same hour.
But Lornadoone is a silver woolly-bear with cheeks as round as truth (and/or a cookie; they are similar).
She bites because she feels deeply. She intends to be a catalyst. All of her ions are intense. Love is her nucleus. Tabby’s Place is her element. And, if she periodically falls off the table due to her excitement to snuggle and/or chomp you, that is only proof that gravity is unworthy of her.
We have a poet laureate. Prescott‘s genius cannot be contained. Prescott cannot be contained to one location. People say she is a “door runner,” but people never understand the greatest minds of their generation.
Prescott cannonballs from Lobby to Community Room to The Mystic Hallway Of Wet Food because inspiration is everywhere. Prescott is gathering material and momentum.
In every age, poets are the first to see the heart of the matter. Prescott is also the first to see where the giblets come from, and who folds the laundry. If we are going to save the world, we are going to need to know who folds the laundry. You just think about that.
We have an anthropologist. As supervisor to our Founder & Executive Director, Marcia holds the highest title on the Tabby’s Place organizational chart. (Do not repeat this to Olive. I repeat, do not repeat this to Olive, unless you intend the apocalypse to begin before Wheel of Fortune comes on tonight.)
But Marcia wears her leadership lightly, more content to observe than command. She is our preeminent researcher into why the strongest humans are the most comfortable shedding tears, why the most beautiful humans are the most comfortable letting cats shed hairs on their clothes, and why Jonathan is so fond of Meat Loaf.
We have a comforter, and she may be the most powerful female feline in all of Tabby’s Place.
Now, dear world leaders, we know what you are going to say. Sootie does not appear, to the naked eye, to be a mover and a shaker. We have not seen her move in seventeen hours, unless that one sleep-belch counts.
But the so-called rulers of this world have always underestimated the meek, the gentle, and the gelatinous.
Sootie may look like a chocolate eclair the size of a sedan. But this woman of weight is a weighted blanket of peace. She can wrap you in solace with the warmth in her eyes. She can turn a stranger into a neighbor with a single head-bonk.
The only thing she cannot do is reject anyone.
If she did that, she could not sleep at night, and Sootie requires thirty-six hours of sleep a night.
So, statespersons and royals of the world, you know where to find Earth’s healers. Today is International Women’s Day, and our ladies are making history, biscuits, and good trouble.
Please inform the United Nations. Tell them Olive sent you.