There are dreams too deep to tell.
There are tales too large for words.
This is not one of those stories.
It’s Friday, so I hope you’re not expecting mysterium profundum here, whatever that is. You won’t find it.
You will, however, find a striped orange cat and his shenanigans.
Meet one Abalone Rosenberg, the Tabby’s Place cat with the distinction of being the sole (current) resident named for a mollusk.
Alas for Ab, this thin orange slab of tab also has more dubious distinctions:
Sole resident with warning signs on both signs of the Community Room door, re: shenanigans.
Sole resident with his own specially purposed water bottle, designed to be aimed at his person in case of shenanigans.
Sole resident with a soul that seems stocked to the ceiling with shenanigans.
It’s not that Abalone was a known rowdy upon arrival. Quite the contrary; he was entirely too subdued.
Awesome Ab had been abandoned at a high-volume (read: outlook not so good) shelter, beset by baffling neurological signs. Through a series of ordinary, miraculous, marvelous events, Ab absconded to Tabby’s Place, where we puzzled over his possible history of seizures, his hind-end weakness, his worsening vision.
We ached for this shell of a cat, peering into his ponderous eyes for signs of hope and spark and, perhaps, even the slightest shenanigan.
We needn’t have worried.
Blood work revealed no infectious diseases. Vision returned, unceremoniously, to Abalone’s enormous eyes. He began acting more “neurologically appropriate,” as medically-minded folks put it.
And that’s when the outrageous inappropriateness began.
Mysteriously freed from his bad-brain behavior, Abalone could get down to the business of getting in everyone’s face. When it came to humans, that was cute and charming and endlessly adorable. (Bright orange head-bonk, anyone?)
When it came to cats, it was…well, shenaniganny. But more on that in a moment.
As of this post, Abalone is adoring his new life in the Tabby’s Place Community Room. He LOVES the Community Room. But then, Ab would slap a five-star review on a gulag; he’s just that kind of happy-go-lucky goof. He did time in our Hospital, where he discovered that he LOVES recycling bins; he LOVES shelving; he LOVES medical supplies.
Abalone also LOVES other cats, by which I mean “popping them self-righteously upon the noggins.”
Ergo the spray bottle.
Ergo the stern signage insisting that Abalone stay sequestered in the Community Room. (The Lobby has exceeded its shenanigan quota and broken the rowd-o-meter already.)
Ergo the outrageous transformation from trembly, terrified medical mystery to confident king of all he surveys. Especially the shenanigans.
There are many tightly-sealed shells yet to crack when it comes to our happy clam. Abalone is likely bound for a neurology consult at some point, and we’ll have to wait and see if he can keep the privilege of Community Room life. (Suite C would LOVE to teach Abalone a thing or ten about shenanigans.)
But in the meantime, we’re just shimmering with gratitude that Ab the tab is here, and healthy, and having the time of his rowdy life. So are we.
After all, Fridays are made for shenanigans.