Cats, you’re supposed to be better than this.
More precisely, you’re supposed to be better than us.
We are only human. The best of us are still just children.
We are novices at patience and amateurs of peace. We get angry over parking spaces and potato salads. We stop talking to each other over differences small enough to hide in our dimples. We end up hiding from each other, huffy in the haze of our own rightness.
But you, cats, are supposed to be different.
You are the saints and sages who do not see “difference.” One-and-a-half-eyed Ruchi is simply a “cool old guy with good stories” in Willow‘s sight. Prescott‘s limp tail and Berry‘s stiff breadstick legs are invisible to their flotilla of friends. Deku is delightful, delirious proof that you cannot be too peculiar for this party.
Generations, personalities, and opinions all meld in this freewheeling family.
You, dear cats, teach us the meaning of community and embrace.
You make Tabby’s Place a wisdom carnival, where the last become first and the paraplegics dance.
But now, you are making a liar out of me. And it is all because you can’t make sense of Giovanni.
At first, we thought this was just a matter of music. Friendships have ended over differences of opinion on Puccini, Shaboozey, and who gets to sing “Pink Pony Club” at karaoke. Giovanni wore a collar with a bell, so perhaps it was just the tinkling that turned you all so … human.
This theory would preserve your saintliness. Surely, Trent was only chasing Giovanni up and down cat trees like a schoolyard squirrel because of Gio’s bell. Prescott would never pummel an innocent newcomer if not for that jarring jingle.
And Giovanni was certainly innocent.
Cats, you could not have chosen a softer target. From his down-feather fur to his upturned nose, Giovanni is something like a prayer wrapped in a promise, like a kind of miracle manicotti.
He is vaguely Italian and mushy as week-old tiramisu.
He walks so softly, his feet scarcely touch the floor.
He sends thank-you notes for armpit rubs.
He says grace before squeeze-tuna.
He apologizes for getting hairs up your nose. He compliments your preexisting nose hair.
And every one of you hates every hair on his head.
To our disbelief, this proved unrelated to the bell. Even collarless, Giovanni colored your sweet faces with rage.
Berry thundered after him, bellowing like the baritone in some opera called O Mio Babbino Smackdown. Trent cornered Gio for the crime of not staying cornered at all times. Prescott, our most exquisite empath, attempted to churn Giovanni into gelato.
Cats, you are better than this.
To make matters worse, you filed a case in your own defense.
This amicus brief claimed that we — mere humans, mere children — were somehow responsible for the Great Giovanni Gnashing of 2026. We are not sure what else it said, because we can’t read Latin (you are always ahead of us, cats), but there was something about cannoli, and an appendix about the Garth Brooks song “Friends in Low Places,” and a picture of Giovanni defaced with a mustache and an eye patch and the words “Turd Dingus” in Trent’s handwriting.
You really just don’t like the guy.
We attempted to reason with you. You are the world’s foremost welcomers and wielders of warmth. Olive scoots like a Lamborghini to greet visitors with her heart wide open. Ruchi hugs whoever holds him. Luna loves Ilya simply because Ilya is. Deku proceeds on the assumption that every living being is his destiny.
Even Trent, our haughty Napoleon, unfurls the welcome mat for children and seniors.
You are the beloved community, cats. You are the mystic misfits who make a place for everyone.
But when you behave like us, you confuse us.
Little wonder that you sent Giovanni sprinting cattywampus through every open door.
He liked the Lobby. He was not angry with you. He watched YouTube videos on “assuming positive intent.” He read about Enneagram types and attachment styles. But the label “Dreadful Dingbat” was attached too firmly to his forehead.
So you got your way, cats.
You evicted your most innocent neighbor.
We wrapped Giovanni in our arms like a heartbroken cannelloni and whisked him to Tabby’s Place’s answer to Tuscany: Suite I.
Suite I is where you will find Betty, who literally glows with heavenly light. Suite I is where you will find Oliver, who is an espresso with eighty-four Splendas. Suite I is where you will find peace, if there is still peace anywhere on this Earth.
Suite I is … where Cassandra will kick your plush posterior, if you are Giovanni.
Our pariah paesano just can’t catch a break.
Oh, cats, you’re supposed to be better than this.
If you keep this up, we are going to just have to get Giovanni adopted.
Or was that how you scripted this opera all along? Perhaps you really are always ahead of us…
In all seriousness, rest assured that Giovanni is safe, blithe about all this foolishness, and loved lavishly by all of the humans and 82% of the cats in his suite.