It is a great scandal, but not everyone is equally obsessed with every cat.
Fortunately, every cat is flourescently obsessed with catself. And that is sufficient.
We engage in a delicate arithmetic at Tabby’s Place. The sum of one hundred feline egos is a number known only to mystics and masterminds (cats being both). We lower beings content ourselves to simply avoid equations that cause explosions.
Everything that has breath + Agnes = adoration station.
Cornbread + Chicken Nugget = Meemaw’s blue-ribbon recipe, Comfort Food division.
Oram + Tucker = violently excellent, nuclear nurture. They clobber because they care.
Gator + Gator = the love that moves the sun and lesser stars (which is to say, sub-Gatorial stars, which is to say, all of them).
Anything can happen when you combine cats. Anything, that is, except hurt feelings.
Although Nemo considers Wallace an overcooked omelet with the manners of a maggot, Wallace remains breezily convinced he is equal parts Matthew McConaughey, William Shakespeare, and Gandhi. (Maybe slightly more McConaughey.)
No cat expects to be every cat’s top cat.
Each cat is her own top cat, from the fizzy-bottle-of-pop cats to the I-only-stop-plopping-to-flop cats.
And when some feckless fool fails to see their splendor and sizzle?
They simply cry “treachery! You reprobate!” and then move on with their day.
(It is a little known fact that cats really, really, really like the word “reprobate.” Also “zeitgeist,” “crauplence,” and “yak,” but now we’re getting too far afield.)
They can’t awe everyone all the time.
They are serenely awesome, even if they can only ever awe some.
And if somebody doesn’t celebrate them, somebody else will. Preferably someone with a tray of either worship or grilled yak, but any giblet will do.
If Thurman kicks Kozmo out of the solar system, Koz only needs to look as far as the nearest moonstruck volunteer, and his ego is restored. (HA HA HA I MADE A FUNNY! A feline ego capable of damage!)
If Grecca grinds Hips to gravel with her succubus shriek, he need only shimmy into the waiting arms of a willing dance partner or five.
If all else fails, and Alex can’t find anyone willing to attest that he is, in fact, the entirety of the universe, he is perfectly content to confirm this for himself.
But at Tabby’s Place and beyond, none of us is left to ourselves (least of all Alex, who has requested that I add “Apollo Adonis Achilles Ant-Man Apex Alex,” and who am I to treacherously turn him down?).
There will always be someone who will hate your writing or your stretch pants or your effervescence or your tofu paprikash, it’s true. But — miracle of mercy, comedy of kindness — someone else will always think you’re as wonderful as a wallaby.
You’ve seen this phenomenon, no doubt. Gather any group of creatures, and everyone will find someone who has a soft spot for that one.
The gawky one. The talky one. The schlocky one. The one in overalls. The one who thinks she’s over it all. The one who brings his own spork to fancy meals. The one who does everything with zeal. The one who won’t shut up about Bonnie Raitt or bioluminescent algae or bobcats.
You and me and Thurman and Denali.
Just like every tortured high-schooler who finds kindred spirits in college, every crooked tail will find a perfect fit. There are someones for everyone, and they’re worth the wait.
Eventually, the math adds up.
And at Tabby’s Place, we get to reenact that improbable equation every day: time + grace = unconditional love.
You simply can’t be too difficult or demanding or delusional or dingbatty here.
Your people are here.
Your secret hope — not so secret if you are feline — was always true, and your loud enemies were always wrong.
You are permanently fluorescent.
You are already awesome.
You will awe some, and they will be more than sufficient.