We will not be covering the US Presidential Election on this blog.
This is a selfish decision on my part, I know. But my hobbies include “avoiding panic attacks” and “not getting fired,” so here we are. Also, the cats’ preferred candidate already dropped out, by whom of course I mean Hulk Hogan.
We will, however, talk about politics.
We will talk about Regina‘s confidence in America. Regina believes we are stronger than disagreement and gravity. Regina believes that we all treasure the same dreams. Regina believes we all wash our paws the same way, which makes us family.
In her run for Chairkitten of Quinn’s Corner, Regina campaigns on the Three-Legged Stool:
1. Graceful is as graceful does
2. Frolicking is a civil right
3. Every cat deserves to love herself
She is only legislating the obvious.
Since the first saber-toothed tiger walked by a glassy lake, every feline has seen her own soulmate in the mirror.
On the first day of her administration, Regina will scoot her perfect paraplegic stripes down the aisle and hand out artisanal crabcakes, whether or not you voted for her.
We will talk about Betty‘s campaign promise, Toys of Tomorrow (T.o.T.). She has the answers for both a drowsy economy and existential malaise. Once elected Empress of Every Entity, Betty will abolish term limits and reallocate all funding for plant-based meat to a universal basic salmon income.
(She will also throw the boards of Boca, Morningstar Farms, and Impossible Meats into a dungeon staffed by unneutered saber-toothed tigers.)
Here’s how T.o.T. works. Every living creature, from salamander to sea lion, shall be given no fewer than one (1) jingly gift each month. Betty will not abide a world where anyone goes to bed without chasing vinyl butterflies that spin like dust devils.
She will not permit one soul to walk the earth without a USB-charged feather hurricane. She will give us all the joy she has been given. Betty is a creature of such ineffable light, she wants everyone to know her bliss. (Except the dungeon vegans, who will get only those toys that humans think are adorable and cats think are stupid, which is to say 95% of them.)
But most of all, we will speak of Maurice.
You might assume that, being a Frenchman in his own mind, Maurice is ineligible to run for federal office in these here States. You would be incorrect. You might also assume that Maurice mutters “quelle moron” when I say things like “these here states.” You would be correct.
Maurice is eligible for everything that exists in the mind of Maurice.
This includes the gold medal in pole vaulting, the role of Aragorn in the musical version of Lord of the Rings, and Presidency of the United States. But he will begin with Suite B. And he will end all debate with his campaign slogan: Strong Enough for Stroganoff.
No one from here to Provence would doubt the strength of our striped chaton. Maurice has overcome the sight of humans in sweatpants, the absence of a decent fromagerie on our premises, and tabloid reports of his inappropriate elimination. (He denies nothing. He kisses his own mug shot and coos, “magnifique!“)
Maurice is strong enough to swim the Atlantic with Regina and Betty on his back. Maurice is also handsomer than one hundred Emmanuel Macrons hand-feeding each other macarons and macaroons. (This just in from Suite B: “Quelle moron!“)
Maurice is strong. We know this.
But there is one holdout, and her vote could ruin everything.
It’s Grecca.
Thanks to an obscure law established in 1789, the loudest cat at Tabby’s Place casts the deciding vote in all matters of national security. Obviously, this includes granting leadership of a nuclear superpower to a cross-eyed cat who pretends New Jersey is Paris.
Grecca is not impressed with Maurice. Grecca does not think Maurice is strong enough to stand up to a hamster. Grecca does not even think Maurice could balance a grape on his head for thirty seconds. Grecca said this out loud. Grecca is incapable of “saying” anything at a volume lower than “sold-out stadium.”
Ergo Maurice’s campaign.
Maurice has taken to showing Grecca his muscles. Maurice has tattooed Grecca’s subconscious with the sentence “je suis LE GRANDE MAURICE.” Maurice has assailed and derailed Grecca’s cherished convictions.
Maurice has never met Grecca. Not exactly.
Maurice and Grecca exist on opposite sides of a deep river that Maurice calls “The Seine” and Grecca calls “a piece of glass, you idiot.” Grecca lives in the Lobby. Maurice lives in Suite B.
This does not muffle Maurice’s strength. Maurice swats and smacks and filibusters and flatters himself all the live long day. Maurice pummels the glass, and polishes his ego, and gives Grecca more agita than a lobbyist.
She gives it back.
But when he’s not paying attention, Grecca also gives Maurice’s ideas some thought.
She hates to admit it, but she likes the thought of replacing the Supreme Court with nine supreme pizzas. She could support requiring humans to take a mandatory year of chin-skritching after high school.
She could … if these proposals came from anyone but Maurice.
And perhaps that is the lesson for all of us on two, three, or four legs.
If we can bring ourselves to stand each other, we just might be able to stand together. There are plenty of butterflies and mozzarella sticks to go around. We can have wheelbarrows of fun if we’ll roll with each other’s weird. Every living creature deserves to love herself and her neighbor.
Graceful is as graceful does.