There was no way we were keeping the name “Chicken.”
The Lobby was far too hungry for that.
Far be it from me to disparage the name “Chicken.” It is as honorable as “Alistair” or “Magnus.” It is as elegant as “Arabella” or “Blythe.” It is the name of Tabby’s Place aristocracy, worthy of such nobles as Chicken Nugget and Chicken Salad.
There is nothing wrong with the name “Chicken.”
It is simply not the name for a certain individual.
Every individual is an individual, although it might appear otherwise. One licorice kitten plus one licorice kitten added to one boisterous braid. Their two happy-go-lucky hearts twisted into one Twizzler of a live wire. They went together like a mandolin and a ukulele. They went together like Good and Plenty.
They went together like those greats of the griddle, Chicken and Waffles.
But there was no way we could keep the name “Chicken.”
The erstwhile Chicken would not allow it.
Sit on the Lobby floor to meet the dainty half of this dizzy duo, and you will quickly learn three things:
1. There is nothing “chicken” about this little lady.
2. There is nothing better than to be alive at the same time in history as this cat and her brother.
3. There is nothing on earth that can separate them into their constituent ingredients.
Some might assume our onyx adolescents forged their bond in the fires of adversity. After all, no kitten chooses to be born with a cerebellum the size of birdseed. No one longs for life in a public shelter.
But so it was for two buzzing babies.
The kittens had cerebellar hypoplasia, a condition caused by exposure to distemper while in utero. More than likely, their mother was vaccinated while pregnant, causing the twins to have underdeveloped cerebellums. Their own brains chickened out before the party began.
There was only one thing to do.
Party harder. Together. Always, together.
Together, the twosome came to Tabby’s Place.
They had their work cut out for them. The people of Tabby’s Place are known for being hopeful, grateful, slaphappy and happy-go-lucky. But two kittens knew we could be more. This was the hour for which they were born.
Waffles, our boisterous boy, made it clear that he was happy to have been born precisely the way he was born. Cerebellar hypoplasia, or CH, is neither progressive nor painful. It affects motor control, with symptoms ranging from a mild tremor all the way to near-paralysis, depending on severity.
Waffles has no dexterity, and no interest in the word “severity.”
Waffles wobbles like a syrup bottle in the hand of a toddler. If Waffles made you breakfast, he would put an individual blueberry in every square. Instead, Waffles is breaking the Tabby’s Place fast of CH cats.
It is no secret that Tabby’s Place is smitten with CH cats.
Can you blame us? Their lineage includes such greats as Edward and Gabriella. Their electricity lights every gloom. Their “disability” includes the distinct ability to remain dancing at all times. They are incapable of feeling sorry for themselves. They envision a world incapable of remaining solemn.
It has been a long, dusty drought of CH cats at Tabby’s Place.
Waffles and his sister came to break our fast.
But first, the little sister with the big shimmy would need a proper name.
She was a bird, but no Chicken. She attempted to convince Cora to engage in random acts of Macarena. She outran the combined forces of Prescott, Hips, and her own brother, with all four of her legs operating independently.
She memorized the Complete Works of Walt Whitman and authored a peer-reviewed article on particle physics, reminding us that cerebellums are optional accessories.
She memorized the look in each individual human’s eyes when they are starting to become sad, reminding us that we are not alone.
She flew. She flapped her bendy little body right through the gate into Jonathan’s office. She commanded us to rearrange the Lobby to facilitate more frequent eruptions of dance. She sang in a citric shriek that shook the “serious” right out of the rafters.
She was not a Chicken, but a Chickadee.
She and her brother are feeding the hungry like baby birds.
If you are starving for silly and parched for sweetness, report to the Tabby’s Place lobby. After all, “CH” stands for Cheer Here.
Update: By all means, please report to the Tabby’s Place lobby. However, do not expect to find Chickadee and Waffles, for they have taken their jamboree to their forever home — together, of course.
But, it seems the CH fast has indeed been broken. Meet our newest CH-likely babies (definitive diagnoses pending), Emmy and Stuart. Is that maple syrup I see over there on the floor, or your melted heart? More on these miracles soon…
