It’s not every day we have a Family Meeting at Tabby’s Place.
But when 21 family members are in peril across the Atlantic, it’s all hands on deck.
It was the kind of summer afternoon that is magnificent precisely because it is ordinary.
We had just endured a siege of hundred-degree heatwaves, damaging storms, stifling wildfire haze, and losses that left no time for our tearful cheeks to dry.
But today, the gloom surrendered to blue sky. Daisies and honeysuckle swayed over Cherny’s Garden. Everyone’s scrunched shoulders softened. There were no watches or warnings, no crises or passings.
After days of being cooped up, the cats bounded out into their solariums and promptly plopped into sun-dreams. Rihanna jellied herself into a purring tabby puddle. Luna scooted loopy laps through the Lobby. Serene stroller walks resumed.
It was not exciting. It was exquisite.
It was a blessedly “bland” day.
Those are always the days where history happens.
“Family Meeting. Outside.”
At first, I just thought Carolyn was coaxing us all to lunch. We are rather fond of each other on this staff, and we try to get together for at least a brief breath of the day.
But the morning gallops faster than a kitten, and lunchtime can sprint through the cat flap undetected while you’re busy feeding cats, or medicating cats, or fundraising for cats. Carolyn was probably just calling us all to our midday moment.
As I finished “just one more email,” the call grew louder. “FAMILY MEETING. Mandatory.”
Something urgent was afoot.
As our little staff family gathered around the picnic tables, the news crackled like heat lightning: our beloved friends at Animals Lebanon were on the brink of despair.
For these Beirut angels, a “normal” day means plunging into war zones on behalf of someone smaller than themselves. With little regard for their own safety, these rescuers are relentless in saving the broken and terrified.
If you call them heroes, they will look away and tell you this is just what love does.
But today, love did not know what to do.
Animals Lebanon had plucked twenty-one cats from rubble, roadsides, unspeakable abuse, and anguish that we can’t fathom in New Jersey. At great personal sacrifice, they made a way for the twenty-one to find safety in the United States. The cats were flying into JFK at the end of July. Tabby’s Place had agreed to take ten.
The plans were set. But plans and peace can fall apart right in the middle of an ordinary day.
For reasons outside anyone’s control, the other eleven cats suddenly had nowhere to go.
Could we take all twenty-one?
All twenty-one.*
Needless to say, twenty-one is “a lot of cats.” With a normal occupancy around 140 or so, it’s a sizable percentage of the Tabby’s Place population — a whole continent of cats, crashing into our little world on a single day.
“Yes” would stretch our staff to the physical and emotional limit.
“Yes” would be the answer that would ask everything from everyone.
“Yes” could not be “yes” unless it was a unanimous “yes.” A family “yes.”
Every face around the picnic table flushed with memories. Animals Lebanon has been part of our family for over a decade. They send cats who need Tabby’s Place. They send cats who make Tabby’s Place what Tabby’s Place was born to be.
We all thought of Hips, the slaphappy white “rhinoceros” who melted like a toasty marshmallow in all available arms.
We thought of Polly, the blind seer of Suite I who could feel your feelings before you knew them yourself.
We thought of intergalactic Kozmo, who acted like every day was his birthday, and otherworldly Eartha, the mystic Muppet who became the center of our universe.
We thought of Cotton, the angelic imp embroidered into the fabric of our lives, and Marco, the placid Persian who turned ringworm baths into meditation retreats.
On paper, each Beirut cat needed us. In the real, messy, miraculous flesh-and-fur days where we live, each Beirut cat gave us life.
We all looked at each other, eyes brimming with family names.
We looked at our peaceful solariums in the garden-variety sunshine, full of dreamers far from danger.
We looked at twenty-one faces with the eyes of our hearts. For though we couldn’t yet see them or even know their names, we knew our answer.
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
A unanimous yes.
A family yes.
Yes.
There will be questions in the extraordinary days ahead. Who are these new family members, and what will they need to heal? What little treats will translate into trust, and where do their weary bones thrill to be tickled? Who will be adopted in a flash, and who will walk among us as a living gift for years to come?
Answers will come in the loving.
Which leaves just one last question.
How can you help?
Dear Tabby’s Place family, as we prepare for this unprecedented intake, your donation would be a “yes” to life.
We anticipate an extraordinary spike in expenses for our Beirut babies. Even twenty-one “ordinary” cats arriving on one day would stretch our staff and resources intensely. But Beirut survivors come with needs and traumas that take heroic care to heal.
July 31 will be no ordinary day.
It will be a family reunion, with twenty-one faces we will wonder how we ever lived without.
Please join in love’s unanimous “yes.”
*As of this writing, we are not completely certain as to the exact number of cats coming to us, as it is possible a few may find placement elsewhere. Stay tuned for an update once the cats are here and settled. We will be lavishing them with your love from the moment they land.