But when are two even better than merely “better than one?” When is “better than one” such a weak, wimpy term that it’s an insult to the awesomeness of two?
I can think of at least four such instances:
1) Two episodes of Perfect Strangers.
2) Two Betty Whites. Or Anderson Coopers. (I am generally quite opposed to human cloning. But there are exceptions.)
3) Two pink cupcakes with sprinkles.
But most importantly,
Not that there was ever any other option. Adopting Venice out alone was not an option. Adopting Star out alone was so not an option.
And failure? Definitely not an option.
But depending on how you define failure, the dainty doyennes of Suite C were flirting with it. Five years is a long time eon stinkin’ ice age when you’re a cat (or a celebrity marriage; but I digress). Granted, five years at Tabby’s Place is pretty sweet for any species…but, really, a five-year wait for two of the cutest, loveliest, most practically-perfect creatures this side of Mary Poppins?
Practically perfect. But just like the Amish quilts purposefully created with a flaw, to represent the fact that only One is really perfect, so the Star/Venice dyad lived with…well, not a flaw, really. Just a…quirk. Maybe it’s in the Ringoes water, but none of us at Tabby’s Place are wanting for quirks. (At last count I personally had 8,745.)
Anyhow, Star’s quirk sounds like a joke. She is…um…allergic. To people.
Not quite in the way that Dobro is allergic to people. There was a time when Star showed signs of that particular allergy, cringing from human contact. But that was years ago; now it’s just our dander that…well, gets her dander up.
Since people-free living is not an option for Star, she gets allergy injections once a month. That’s all it takes to keep her from itching and agitating (the literal symptoms of her allergy). Not too much to ask, right?
OK. So getting that injection into Star requires a human with the patience of 15 Mother Teresas and the speed of 47 cheetahs. (The skin of a stegosaurus wouldn’t hurt, either.) But no matter; it’s a once-a-month chase, and it’s over (relatively) quickly. The other 99.999% of life with Star is utterly delightful.
I do mean delight-full. There’s the delight of her face, so tiny and pointy that she out-cutes Shirley Temple any day of the week. There’s the delight of her teensy meow, kittenlike even at the ripe old age of 12.
Most of all, there’s the delight of Star’s love. She’ll love you quickly, after a little bit of care and caution. But first, foremost, and forever, she loves her sister Venice.
And with good reason. Venice is the kind of sister Hallmark had in mind when they made all those plaques and picture frames and random things that say “Sisters are the friends you’re born with” and “Sistafriends are special.” Venice, truth be told, is the more independent of the sisters. She keeps company with many a cat, and it’s typically Star who clings to her rather than the other way around. Venice is also the more gregarious of the girls, greeting visitors with a perky upturned face and very little fear and trepidation. If not for the little sis who depends on her 900%, Venice could have been adopted dozens of times by now. So many good people wanted just one cat, a nice “normal” cat like Venice, but didn’t bargain for a little sis who happens to be allergic to humans.
Well. All I can say about those good people is that it wasn’t meant to be. But now? The meant-to-be ship has docked, and two little black sisters are dancing out to sea.
Selfishly, my heart misses the doyennes of Suite C. They’d reigned there just a few days shy of forever, long enough for their souls to spread out and fill every nook and cranny of the room. I still see little Star stretching out of the corner of my eye, with her protective Venice just inches away.
But no Doublemint twins ever courted a sweeter fate than Star and Venice have found, so we had to let them go. They’d only waited five years; may they have fifteen more (and then some) shining – together – in their forever home.