“Steven.”
“Steeeeee-ven!”
“Steeeeeeeeeeeee! VEN!”
No cat has ever had a more wonderful name.
We did not know what to call the pinch of cinnamon frizz that arrived at our door in 2009.
Orphan kittens are often bedraggled. But this sorry urchin was in a class of his own. He looked less like a cat than a fossil, ancient before his time. Dehydrated and gasping, he seemed unlikely to survive.
But Tabby’s Place is the nemesis of “unlikely” and the sworn enemy of “impossible.”
Our Senior Veterinary Technician, Denise (now our Medical Director), cupped the crusty kitten in her hands and looked into his lost, squinting eyes. “Steven. His name is Steven. I’ll foster him.”
Having a name changes everything.
Through expert medical care and the sheer stubbornness of love, Steven survived. By the time he was strong enough to return to Tabby’s Place, he and Denise had forged a bond so deep, it was as though they’d adored each other seventeen years … or centuries.
Yet the time had come for Steven to join the rumpus of adoptable kittens. (See below for video of Steven with his fellow smidgens, 16 years ago.) Denise loved him enough to want him to find his forever family.
Sweet as pudding, the brown-sugar kitten stole the hearts of two species. There was just one problem. Steven would not use the litter box.
This is understandably off-putting to adopters. They would fall in love with Steven, only to trudge away downcast at the news of his “quirk.” One by one, Steven’s kitten friends were plucked like flowers, until he was the last kitten in the clowder.
To tell you the truth, Steven was not sad … and neither were we.
Our tangerine toddler became the biggest presence in the Lobby, and everyone’s heart grew seventeen times in size.
But Steven was still small enough to get into trouble. One harrowing day, he went missing.
I am not talking about the kind of hide-and-go-seek where a kitten cannonballs into a cupboard, comes out covered in Cheerios, and everyone has a good laugh.
I am talking about five minutes that turn into forty, then an hour, with the entire Tabby’s Place staff breathless, frantic, and increasingly convinced Steven was somehow gone forever.
Could he have slipped out the front door? Might some unsavory character have crammed him in their purse? (If so, they would likely return when their purse pooled with pee.) Could he have gotten himself injured or worse?
Most of us were on the brink of tears.
But Denise knew just what to do.
“Steven. Steven!” She stood in the center of the Lobby, one soulmate calling another by name. “Steven!”
“Mew!” It was faint at first, muffled by some great distance.
“Steeeee-ven!”
The sound of his name, in a voice that loved him, gave the frightened kitten strength. “MEW!”
He was alive. He was somewhere close by.
Where the heck was he?
“STEEEEEEEEE! VEN!”
At last, his piccolo cries pinpointed his location: one of the Lobby couches. But Steven was not on the couch. Steven was not under the couch. Steven was … inside the couch, like it had swallowed him whole.
Tears turned to laughter as we turned the sofa upside-down. Somehow, Steven had tunneled up through the cushion, then gotten so confused he did not know how to turn around and find his way back out.
Once he was safe in Denise’s arms, he purred loudly enough to wake people sleeping seventeen years later.
He was home.
As it turns out, he was forever home.
Other than one blink-and-you-miss-it brief adoption (which ended almost instantly, thanks to his “inappropriate elimination”), Steven would spend the rest of his life at Tabby’s Place.
His name became a password to happiness. “Can I visit Steven?” “I sponsor Steven.” “I love Steven.” Spoken by staff, volunteers, donors, and visitors, “Steven” was a six-letter love letter you couldn’t say without smiling.
Steven basked in his name and his life, accumulating friends-who-became-family even faster than his many medical issues. By age two, he had the teeth of a wizened old man. This hardly hampered his smile.
When you are on your way to becoming Tabby’s Place’s all-time longest term resident, you get to experience just about every suite on the premises. Yet wherever he moved, Steven stopped everything to comfort and cuddle new and old friends.
I would tell you he was a “staff and volunteer favorite,” but he was far more. He was the orange heart of our family. He was a living loveseat for the ragged and lonely.
If you were lost or forgotten, Steven was the cat who remembered your name.
He would sprint to greet you first, weaving around your ankles until you took your proper place beside him on a blanket for mutual snuzzlement.
If you misplaced your joy, he held it in safe keeping for you, presenting it to you as he gazed up, splendorous, in your lap.
If a bad day swallowed you whole, and you could not find your way out, Steven called you, not in words but in warmth, until you felt safe again.
Steven’s name rang out across the world, as he became one of our most-sponsored cats. Across three continents, the squishy face with the perpetual smile graced refrigerator doors and albums. People who visited him daily and people he’d never met likewise considered Steven a family name.
As the years gathered, our earnest old man collected conditions. Arthritis slowed his gait but not his grace. He took heart disease and annoying eye issues in stride.
His body grew as doughy as good bread, and cranky cats rolled their eyes at his poky pace. Steven’s final and most glorious address at Tabby’s Place would be our Medical Suite, where he would have constant monitoring and the gentlest roommates: our adoring vet team, big-hearted Baby … and Denise.
Steven’s forever home was right here all along, with the first one who called his name.
The last two years of Steven’s life would prove to be the sweetest. On his sixteenth birthday, the staff handcrafted him a gourmet cake, complete with “fondant” fishes.
People sang his name around the world.
As arthritis slowed his roll, our cinnamon statesman held court on his blanket, purring for all who sat beside him.
When “goodbye” drew near, at first none of us could quite call it by name. Steven was “slowing down.” Steven was “having some ups and downs.” Steven was “just seventeen.”
Steven made his last plea gently.
His body was so weary. His heart was so full. He could not go on, but he promised to carry our names and faces to the place that pain can’t reach.
He left this world from the center of our family, encircled by people who adored him.
And on the same morning as Steven’s passing, another orange orphan arrived: Totoro, a little girl.
We will make sure she knows in whose pawprints she follows.
We will love Steven for all our lives, and beyond.
We will speak his name for the rest of Tabby’s Place history.
We will miss him until the day our names are called, and he comes galloping to greet us.
Until we meet again, thank you for being ours, and making us yours, beloved Steven.
“Steeeeeeee-ven!”
Reflections from just a few of the people who love Steven most:
“Steven was so much! He was the darling of every tour. He was the beloved of the staff and volunteers, and I fondly remember being introduced to him for the first time. Mostly, Steven was simply the most perfect cat imaginable. He had a perfect blep. He had a perfect buff coat. He had a perfect disposition. I feel so lucky to have had so many years of joy knowing our wonderful Steven. Forever loved; forever ouch.” – Kitty LeFey
“Steven was the first Tabby’s Place cat I ever fell in love with, and it happened the second I met him on my first day. The endearing way he meowed and shuffled over for attention stole my heart immediately. His perfect little face made my day better every time I saw him, especially when his tongue was sticking out while he slept. Rest well bud, I’ll miss you forever.” – Colin
“Steven and I have shared our Tabby’s Place journey almost to the day. I started volunteering in the summer and within a few weeks a small buff kitten arrived. We have shared 17 wonderful years as friends. I adored Steven. I was lucky enough to become his correspondent and spent a number of years being Steven’s biggest cheerleader. It wasn’t hard. He was an extraordinary cat. I loved seeing his little snaggle-toothed smile, waddling over to me to gets lots of love and pets. He was always happy and made everyone who interacted with him happy too. Steven and Tabby’s Place will forever be connected in my mind. I think I assumed he would just always be here. I will miss you so much darling Steven. You were one of a very special kind and you have my heart forever.” – Sue
“He protected me from Eartha when she would steal my bag and try to make it her home while attacking me. He was always there to save me from Eartha.” – Dr. Miller
“Steven is and will be the most wonderful, unique cat any of us could ever enjoy!! We will love him always.” – Tiff