In Roman numerals, “C” indicates one hundred.
In Ringoes, New Jersey, “Cici” indicates one hundred percent.
As in, perfect.
“Perfect”? Well, that’s a rather big word, isn’t it? Only Roman emperors had egos large enough for it. They nicknamed themselves things like “Augustus,” and “Dominus,” and “The Thundering Ravioli.”
But those were also the guys who wore bath towels to brunch and built 120-foot statues of themselves, so perhaps we should not take advice from people who fancy themselves perfect.
Besides, we are dealing with humbler creatures here.
Cici is not even six pounds. She is smaller than a stromboli and only slightly larger than Bruno Mars (who is on record as reporting that he’s “gotta kiss myself, I’m so pretty,” which sounds a little imperial, but we will take his advice anyway).
Cici would never proclaim herself “perfect.”
But that doesn’t make it any less true.
For starters, Cici is feline, the species whose perfection is self-evident. Cats could not manufacture a flaw if they tried. They are too busy attempting to manufacture a meatball machine.
Yet, even among such excellencies, Cici shines.
She is the gladiator of gladness, the Caesar of sweetness. If Cici owned the world’s last shred of cheese, she would find a way to share it with everyone. If Cici owned a time machine, she would use it to go comfort every cat, human, and dandelion who ever felt unloved.
If Cici ruled the empire, we would all be better off.
But all of Cici’s perfections have puddled here at Tabby’s Place, where you can find her wriggling like a river of ricotta in the nearest lap.* It has been a long journey.
Cici was born closer to Rome than Ringoes, in war-torn Beirut. Pain has no respect for perfection, and Cici felt its fury. Kindly strangers spotted the fringed kitten falling and stumbling. They swept her into their arms, and onward to the angels of Animals Lebanon.
Cici’s lynx-like ears had never heard Earth’s most perfect words, I love you. But now, tenderness tickled her tufts and told the truth everyone from kitten to emperor longs to hear: She was precious, exactly as she was. Her rescuers helped her learn to walk again. In their eyes, she was no less wonderful for being wobbly.
But Cici could not stay in Lebanon, and most of the world cannot perceive perfection.
To impatient eyes, a five-pound cat who staggers is as inconsequential as an olive in the Colosseum. If they see her at all, she looks like a knot of needs and defects. She is inconvenient. She is unusual. She may wobble forever. She will only make it if someone makes her the center of their world.
We are far from perfect at Tabby’s Place, but we know that love is solid ground.
And so, the Mediterranean mush-mouse with the jiggly gait brought her purr to our shores.
She adored us on arrival, before we could earn her trust or introduce her to American cheese. She adores us even more every moment she breathes, not because we are glorious, but because we exist.
She cuddles fellow traveler Cookie with such gusto, it is as though her entire life led to this moment of Cookification. She hugs life so tightly, it is no wonder she wobbles. She is so convinced that presence is perfection, she is teaching us new numerals.
We can’t stop counting the ways Cici is perfect.
We passed number one hundred a long time ago.
So, let the world’s emperors and VIPs keep their definitions of perfection. We’ll take the tottering, glittering cat who loves without hesitation and gazes at us as though we, too, are one hundred percent.
“C” means one hundred. “Cici” means cento percento. The sea of love overflows.
*And your heart is about to overflow, because Cici has just been adopted with Cookie. Do miracles ever cease? No, as a matter of fact, they do not.