At Tabby’s Place, everyone’s basic needs are met.
We know how much pâté to order each month.
We maintain a strategic reserve of neon mice.
But we are facing a critical shortage of arms.
I do not mean military munitions. Our residents are all armed to the teeth, including those who have no teeth.
We are protected by 150 clawed residents who can go from “lap fungus” to “feral caffeinated ninja” if necessary to defend the people they love. Despite resembling a sentient shag carpet, Bello would protect any one of us from aliens, abominable snowpersons, or telemarketers.
No, I am talking about the kind of arms that are attached to shoulders, required to maintain our supply of hugs.
We thought we were on top of this. Such matters are “mission critical.”
It is inscribed in the Magna Carta of Tabby’s Place that every cat shall be hugged as often and as smooshily as they desire. (You should read that document sometime. There is an entire appendix devoted to licit and illicit nicknames. “Home Slice,” yes; “Peepaw Peanut Butter Pants” … also yes, because there are no illicit nicknames.)
But, living with Toby means that Hug Demand can never again keep up with Hug Supply.
When Toby arrived in October, we knew we were in the presence of greatness. We immediately petitioned Congress to rename October “OcToby,” in recognition of his achievements in the field of affection.
If Toby had eight legs, he would use eight out of eight to hug you. He would stand by this decision even if offered a swimming pool of Velveeta in exchange for only hugging you with seven.
He is brown sugar streaked with molasses, in the highest concentration of sweetness ever recorded.
His eyebrows are always raised, because he remains amazed at all times.
He tests positive for feline leukemia virus (FeLV), but he only heard the “positive” part.
He wears a white bib because he expects a perpetual feast…
…of hugs.
When you first meet Toby, you will think you are up to the job. He won’t tell you otherwise. The only thing Toby does better than amazement is affirmation.
In the shelter of your arms, Toby will tell you that these are the best arms since Earth’s first salamander said, “hey, look, I have arms!”
Toby will tell you that Doritos jostle in the bag to be the first to touch your lips, and butterflies plan their migrations to be here for your birthday. Toby will tell you that you have cool shoes, and you are his favorite poem.
Toby will tell you many things while he is in your arms, and they will all be true.
You may not be sure if he is a cat or a pillar of kindness. He is both, and he deserves to be hugged as such.
The trouble is, you only have two arms.
At some point, your arms will be required elsewhere. Toby understands. He knows arms have obligations.
Someone needs to dance the Y-M-C-A, and someone needs to play the fiddle, and someone needs to reach the mini sausages on the top shelf. (You can see what sort of evening Toby envisions for you.)
It’s OK, really.
Hugging is a team sport, and someone can tag in for you. Toby believes there are enough huggers to prevent disaster.
When his favorite hugger has to go drive the ice cream truck, his other favorite hugger can swoop in like a superhero before Toby’s toes touch the ground. Incidentally: flying and invisibility are nifty, but hugging is the only superpower worthy of a cape, so long as the cape doesn’t get in the way of hugging.
And when Toby’s other favorite hugger has to extract their arms, to go conduct a symphony or scoop a litter box, Toby’s other other favorite hugger will be there to save the day.
We do have a lot of huggers around here. Tabby’s Place has more superheroes than Comic Con.
But that leaves one problem.
All this hugging has left Toby hungry for more hugging.
Toby is not just a cupcake. He is also a genius. He has calculated that, if a standard hug is the most perfect force in New Jersey, a hundred-armed hug could save the world.
Toby likes the sound of that.
Once we save this world, we can move on to other worlds, presumably inhabited by other huggers.
First, we need to get everyone to hug Toby simultaneously.
This is going to require choreography, and also deodorant.
But there is a clause in the Magna Carta of Tabby’s Place for precisely this situation.
There is one, and only one (1), acceptable substitute for infinite simultaneous hugs: one, and only one (1), forever home.
In the arithmetic of love, seven billion hugs add up to less than one hug from one person who embraced you.
Toby believes they are out there.
We believe everything Toby believes.
So, come to Tabby’s Place, long-awaited hugger. Our arms are open.
Epilogue: Toby’s forever family must have read this blog over my shoulder while I was writing it. That’s right. Toby has been embraced by his very own AwesomeAdopters. Making matters more magnificent, he will join fellow Tabby’s Place alum Sammy. It is too wonderful for words. Group hug, anyone?