The world is full of beautiful voices: altos and bluebirds, baritones and nightingales.

Yet the most beautiful voice on Earth is always the voice of your best friend.

Today, we are yearning for the voice of our Grecca.

It is hard to remember a time before Grecca’s voice. For four years, her proud holler has thundered over every inch of Tabby’s Place, rattling the rafters, fortissimo all the way to the foundation. She was not in distress, not exactly.

It’s just that she had a legitimate grievance. Someone, somewhere, was paying attention to something other than Grecca.

And then there were all the breakfasts, thousands if not millions of breakfasts, that were not currently present.

But, even if these problems had been solved, Grecca would have continued to yell. That is what happens when you are infinity billion tons of gladness inside seven pounds of tabby stripes. You overflow.

There is an old hymn that goes, “I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free.” Grecca would rewrite this to say, “I yell because I’m happy, I yell because I’m Grecca.”

Yet although Grecca’s meow caused seismic activity as far away as Belgium, the loudness was the least of it. What echoes is her voice.

We first heard that voice in the ragged days of the pandemic. Grecca was part of the “class of 2021,” a feisty fellowship of cats sent our way from New York City. When we rescue cats from municipal shelters, we do not provide a wish list. Our only request is, “send us the ones who need Tabby’s Place.”

Somehow, they always send us the ones we need.

The class of 2021 was no different. Like a reverse Bruce Springsteen song, the eight cats escaped New York for New Jersey. What shall we say of Bosco and Bellamy, Cammy and Consetta? Each one was a standout.

But only one was Grecca.

Scarcely a pinch of nutmeg, the smallest brown tabby was lithe and loquacious. She could hold a conversation and her own invisible microphone. Weighing little more than a mid-size gerbil, she could also hold the entire Earth over her head like a beach ball, if she so desired.

But what Grecca desired was gabbing. Not the monologue of the egomaniac. Not the silence of the pupil. But the bawdy, brassy, beautiful back-and-forth of friends.

I almost wrote “equals,” but let’s not be silly. Grecca had no equal. Grecca shall never have an equal. Grecca reminded us of this regularly.

When you are as glad as Grecca, you remember what to remember, and what to forget. It is essential to remember that breakfasts come from the north, through the doors of Quinn’s Corner.

It is responsible to remember which volunteers will kiss your forehead, which will skritch your neck like a banjo, and which will keep up the conversation all morning, even if they have to cancel some minor appointment like their own wedding.

But it is just as important to forget some things:

Grecca came to Tabby’s Place pebbled with mammary cancer. She galloped through a double chain mastectomy (which is as serious a surgery as it sounds), followed by chemotherapy, all at age thirteen.

Grecca was at times called “old.”

Grecca had to endure the occasional unfortunate individual who heard her voice and just kept walking. Grecca wished those sorry specimens well, then promptly forgot them.

Grecca forgot everything smaller than gladness, and she did it on purpose.

Grecca caused everyone to grow in gladness, and she changed the world.

Over four years at Tabby’s Place, the world changed around Grecca. The pandemic eased, and unmasked friends filled the Lobby.

Grecca had so much to say, she was recruited for a lecture circuit. Or at least, that’s how she saw Aged to Purrfection, the Tabby’s Place program that brought her to local nursing homes. Grecca was glad to snuggle seniors of another species. She enjoyed bringing comfort. But the main point was to make many points, verbally. Every yell was an emphatic “I love you!” No hearing aids were necessary for Grecca’s TED talks.

Back home in our Lobby, cats came and went and learned that the tiniest tabby owned the deed to the tallest turret. Only the unwise attempted to join Grecca on her crate, where she amassed beds and breakfasts and gave State of the Sanctuary addresses.

Imps and usurpers (who shall remain unnamed to protect the slaphappy, other than to say their name is Hips) received Grecca’s glower. Even her silence was loud.

But the longer Grecca lived with all those buffoons and bobbleheads, the more she … kind of … loved them.

I would not tell you this if I hadn’t heard it in her own voice. But it’s true. Bello and Trent, Hips and Boobalah, were all ultimately welcome. No one was more surprised than Grecca. But sometimes, the most surprising thing is the sound of your own voice.

And once you heard her say your name, nothing on Earth was more beautiful than the sound of Grecca’s voice.

Strident and gravelly, it could make you jump out of your shoes. But Grecca was not here to win Grammys. Grecca was here to win best friends. When you realized she was calling you, you could not help but jump for joy. And bring her a breakfast or five.

We would give anything to bring her just one more breakfast.

No one saw Grecca’s illness coming, and this was just as Grecca wanted it. She had clobbered cancer and cussed out kidney disease. She was always as bony as a bird, but never dainty. So, when she became a little quiet, lost a little weight, grew a little dehydrated, we assumed she would bounce back.

Cats of a certain age can have health hiccups. Grecca was never one to let a case of hiccups stop her mid-sentence.

But then the Speaker of the Sanctuary became eerily silent. Grecca turned away from conversation, curling up in hunched quiet. Her yells deflated, while her belly swelled. Just as her words dried up, her abdomen filled with fluid.

The diagnosis silenced every song at Tabby’s Place. Grecca the Glad had cancer. Words like “untreatable” and “aggressive” fell to the floor and shattered. Everything was happening so fast.

Grecca was our best friend — each of us, individually, and all of us, together. We stumbled, shell-shocked, through the Lobby.

But though she was too weak to meow, Grecca’s voice could still be heard.

An orchestra will often save its sweetest song for last. Two friends may share their richest conversation at the hour of parting. And a seventeen-year-old tabby cat reserved her clearest speech for the quietest days of her life.

Beyond the sound barrier, her soft eyes smiled. Every blink was thank you, and you are my best friend, and the best breakfasts are yet to come, and I love you, I love you, I love you.

Surrounded by best friends, Grecca crossed into the Great Gladness, where we will all get together in the end that is the beginning. We could not follow her. But we will not cease to hear her voice all the days of this life and the next.

Until we meet again, darling Grecca, yours will always be the most beautiful voice on Earth.

Reflections from just a few of Grecca’s dear friends:

“What I found unique about Grecca is that it seemed like she tried to connect with every individual at least once that day as they passed through the lobby or stopped by to see her. Whether it be an loud meow, warm ‘hello,’ or direct gaze into your eyes, it was as if she wanted you to know ‘I see you.’ That was so special and something I loved about her.” – Allison H.

“Grecca was the most wonderful friend. She loved everyone she saw, especially if they were bringing her a meal. I always loved how she stood on top of her perch in the lobby and surveyed the scene, always hopeful that it was mealtime. Grecca was one of the only cats I have known who had very clear expressions on her face. She could furrow her brow when she was worried that dinner would never come. She could purse her lips when she was getting frustrated that dinner hadn’t come. She gave the best “stink eye” to any cat who dared to encroach on her food or her bed. And of course she had that distinctive meow that said hello with a British accent. I don’t know when she immigrated but she definitely came from royalty. She was queen of our hearts and she will never be forgotten.” – Sue M.

“Our Grecca, our staff sergeant, was song incarnate. Her coloratura range out diva-ed the most celebrated divas. Her pleas for attention and food – all…of…the…food – pierced us to the depths of our collective beings. Not a soul at Tabby’s Place is untouched by the silence she has bequeathed. Her song will resonate in our hearts forever. Keep singing, dear Grecca. We can still hear you, baby girl.” – Kitty LeFey

“Grecca was truly one of a kind—strong, fiercely independent, endlessly particular, and utterly unforgettable. She wouldn’t hesitate to let you know exactly what she wanted, and heaven help the person who didn’t comply. She ruled the lobby and we were all happily under her spell. I’ve never seen so many people go out of their way just to keep one cat content—me included! Her absence is deeply felt. Feeding time will never be the same without her commanding voice and unmistakable presence. She brought me so much joy and I will forever miss her.” – Sarah F.

Video from Sue and Tiana, so you can hear Grecca’s song and carry it in your heart forever:

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