Abacus is not a calculating device. Abacus is a black cat with a very tiny white locket on his chest. Whatever calculations Abacus calculates add up to magic. With his big head (obviously built to suit a very large, very cat brain), Abacus has no need to slide beads along rods to add, subtract, multiply, or divide. He possibly has a great need to ponder the philosophy of mathematics (Yes! It’s a thing!), and he may utilize quadratic equations or differential calculus when trying to solve some mystery of the universe or other. Abacus will neither confirm nor deny such uses of his mental prowess. He does confirm that sliding beads on rods is fun (Toddlers know!), but it’s unfortunate that the beads are firmly affixed to the rods instead of rolling around willy-nilly.
What Abacus’s very existence also confirms is that Abacus is a magician. For example, with sleight (maybe not-so-slight) of hand, Abacus can magically conjure an increase in distance wherein Trifecta’s too-close proximity becomes sufficiently less close, WHAP! With an addition of mere inches, Trifecta is reasonably relocated for Abacus’s comfort. Fortunately, Trifecta remains nonplussed. It’s a definite plus that Trifecta has difficulty perceiving anything as negative. His mathematical prowess is…limited…so rather than adding insult to injury, he simply adjusts.
All this math-y talk might have heads spinning (Mine included!), but the colorful beads that demonstrate how much Abacus has gained by coming to Tabby’s Place are too vast to be contained in all of the abaci that have ever existed since the first one was invented over 4 millennia ago. Abacus was born much. Abacus will always be much. To understand just how much is Abacus, there is no need to run fancy computer programs, whip out a calculator, or consult a slide rule. One merely needs to enter Quinn’s Corner. Oh, yes, Abacus is FeLV+. Maybe it’s the + that brings out the mathmagics in him. Oh, and, yes, Abacus is also FIV+, and thus contains all the negatives of being double positive. Once again, we arrive at fuzzy math. That’s why we’re talking about Abacus. He’s fuzzy. He’s math (hence his name). He’s magic.
Seriously! The first time I sat on the floor near Abacus, he magically reduced the weight of the world on my shoulders. It’s his very best trick, and he’ll show it to anyone who will spend time with him. At our second visit, Abacus transported me out of myself. This he achieved by demonstrating extreme curiosity. Still new to his suite and his suitemates and all of the humans, Abacus set his sights on exploration: through the open door into the Quinn’s Corner lobby, back into the suite to see what that person was doing by the sink, over to the window, back to the sink to see what was within the cabinet doors. Add another whap to increase the 5-inch distance between himself and Trifecta to 10 inches, and time for a brief rest.
Amid it all, there were frequent returns for pets, purrs exchanged for scritches, flops in response to hitting the jackpot of itchy spots. Pure, uncalculating magic. In addition, Abacus sings. He has a lovely voice, and he only performs out of his genuine love for the song, and maybe also for fish mush.
Abacus might have a large head when compared to his body. Nonetheless, he is not destined to become the next great philosopher of mathematics (I know someone who might. Honest!). What he is destined to do is make every staff member, volunteer, and visitor who meets him magically fall hopelessly head-over-heels in love. Abacus is even working at disconnectedly connecting with his much larger next-suite neighbor, Oram. Catty-corner curiosity through solarium fences, black cat eyeing black cat, is a spectacle indeed. Judging by the exchanges, Abacus might begin calculating how to circumnavigate Quinn’s Corner in order to better know all the residents. He might figure out the equations, he might even draw up plans. All we can do is keep him from the tools.