Welcome to Tabby’s Place, new cat! You’re here! You’re ours!
There are not exclamation points in New Jersey to express the full extent of our joy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
We don’t mean to alarm you. Please pardon our fireworks.
It’s just that you exist, and we are excited.
You see, new cat, we’ve been expecting you.
You’re the reason we’re here. It is our sworn duty to celebrate.
I know you have questions:
Why do people who just met you already love you more than macaroni? Why are we caressing you with the world’s smallest toothbrush? Why do vegan frankfurters smell like flatulence? What will be expected of you as a Tabby’s Place cat?
All shall be revealed, new cat.
But for starters: we love you because you are worthy. You are worthy because you were born.
The tiny toothbrush is a fungus-finder to check you for ringworm.
Regarding the vegan frankfurters, some mysteries are known only to God.
And what are our expectations? Well, we are glad you asked. But perhaps we should first clarify what will not be required in your tenure as a Tabby’s Place cat.
You do not have to learn the words to the Star-Spangled Banner. You will, however, unintentionally learn the words to various showtunes, volunteer lullabies along the lines of “you are my little rutabaga,” and myriad songs by such persons as Taylor Swift, Neil Diamond, and Shaboozey.
We are incapable of not singing in your presence, new cat. We are sorry about that, but not much.
You do not have to promise not to eat any fireflies you may catch in the solarium. We know you want to find out if they will light up and shine out your belly button. Be our guest.
You do not have to permit anyone, human or feline, to shnoogle, cuddle, or carry you around like a whiskered watermelon. (You also do not have to apologize if your body type is “watermelon.”)
Take it from our shy citizens: you shall be loved even if you insist we desist on kisses. You have the right to remain unshnoogled. You remain a full citizen of Tabby’s Place, wherever you may reside on the Shnooglability Scale.
You do not have to walk on four legs, gaze out through two eyes, or lose one minute’s sleep over the million ways you may not be “normal.”
You have moved into a country called kindness. Our flag has tabby stripes and quirks in place of stars. More accurately, the quirks are the stars.
Perhaps paraplegia, diabetes, or blindness was the stamp on your passport, the “hopeless situation” that hurled you here like a bean bag. But, new cat, your need is not your name. Your name is “perfect,” though we will call you many things (see above re: little rutabagas).
You do not have to behave. We do not know how to do that, either.
Clifford can explain that, at Tabby’s Place, if you behave like a twelve-year-old boy with no intent to turn thirteen, you are liable to get promoted. Clifford’s achievements in the field of rapscallion science earned him a private suite with a skylight the size of a submarine. Clifford is hoping that further shenanigans may yield a submarine sandwich with extra rapscallions.
But either way, you are still going to get dinner, and our unyielding loyalty, if you bite somebody.
You do not have to be tough. Do you remember the movie Groundhog Day, in which Bill Murray relives that holiday every day? Well, Tabby’s Place is kind of like that, except you are cooler than Bill Murray, and the holiday is Dependence Day.
You are going to need us today, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. You may need us to express your bladder. You may need us to rush you to the emergency vet. You may need us to curl on the floor like jumbo shrimp and slow-blink into your eyes until you believe in love for the first time.
You will certainly need the services of our opposable thumbs.
But here is the thing, new cat. We need you every inch as much. Not one of us at Tabby’s Place can make it without all of us at Tabby’s Place. We are a ragged, radiant family of needy beasts. “Needy Beasts” is also Luke and Trifecta’s Mumford and Sons cover band, but you probably already know that.
And by now, you probably know the one thing required of you as a Tabby’s Place cat.
You need to be free from fear.
Perhaps fear has been your chaperone for many years. Perhaps it has served you well, living as a stray or in a crowded shelter. Perhaps fear protected you from predators or unidentified flying vegan frankfurters.
But fear hit its expiration date the day you came to Tabby’s Place. Throw that stuff out like old mayonnaise.
Oh, and one last thing, new cat. You are going to have to waive just one of your rights.
You are free to run, leap, dance like Lenny Kravitz, and loll in our laps until our legs turn to applesauce.
You are free to think deep thoughts in a quiet cubby, or think zero thoughts while meowing at the top of your lungs.
You are free to eat your body weight in poultry.
You are free to summon volunteers to promenade you in a custom stroller like Air Force One.
You are free to put all the catnip mice in your water bowl as though reenacting the Boston Tea Party.
You are free to lean against our legs and our lives until you can’t tell where you end and we begin. (See above re: Dependence Day.)
But from this day forward, you are no longer at liberty to be unloved.
It is the law of this land.
So, now that you’re here, it’s time to celebrate.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!