He was 7-Up, not Chardonnay.

He was a tie-dyed RV, not an Aston Martin.

He was Foosball, not figure skating; Cartoon Network, not CNBC; flannel, not cashmere.

So, how our most casual, comfortable cat get a title and a tuxedo?

Simple: Mr. Man always had a sense of occasion.

That occasion may have been more “grand opening of Arby’s” than “night at the opera,” but details are irrelevant when greatness is present.

And the day Mr. Man moved into Tabby’s Place, the atmospheric level of greatness increased fifty billion percent.

Mr. Man’s greatness was evident immediately. Impeccably dressed, with eyes as groovy as guacamole, he was Earth’s handsomest resident of any species, with apologies to Ryan Gosling and any debonair mollusks offended by that observation.

You could not help but hug him, and there was no shortage of him to hug. He was not fat, just built “as dense as a neutron star,” as Jonathan would put it.

Yet first glances were never enough, and casual observers became confidantes. Beneath Mr. Man’s good looks was his true greatness: the ability to detect greatness in others.

You might be freshly dumped and feeling like a wet gerbil. You might have just spilled a full jar of Spaghetti-O’s down your shirt. You might be so sad, you could hardly remember your own name. To Mr. Man, you were great.

Whether he was meeting you for the first time or the fiftieth, Mr. Man would remind you. Your name is Greatness. Your name is Goodness. Your name is Mr. Man’s Righteous Rutabaga. And your last name is about to become “Man,” because Mr. Man would like to marry you. That’s how great you are.

Not everyone could grasp Mr. Man’s greatness at first. Regina rolled her eyes. Puff rolled away like a pretzel rod. Who was this cocky cuddler, and who told him he was cooler than Elvis? Also, what’s with the formal wear? This is a Tuesday, not some grand occasion.

Mr. Man corrected them. There has never been a Tuesday that was not a grand occasion. Being together, today, is the grandest occasion since the first occasion that ever occurred. Tomorrow’s forecast for greatness is even better.

Sure enough, the skeptics turned smitten. Regina cuddled Mr. Man. Puff cuddled Mr. Man. Life itself cuddled Mr. Man.

If greatness were a cure for feline leukemia virus (FeLV), Mr. Man would have lived forever.

Mr. Man’s five-year plan included telling every living creature they are rad; visiting the largest Pizza Huts in all fifty states; and dismantling death. He lived his life as though joy could be invincible. He believed there is no one you could not learn to like if you just decided to love them first. He was so robust that he seemed on track to live forever, and to take the rest of us with him.

His greatness was so bright, we almost forgot why he graced us in the first place.

The most comfortable cat carried a prickly passenger. FeLV is unpredictable, and infected cats are too often unwanted. The moment Mr. Man tested positive, all the party invitations got lost in the mail. For all his greatness, he had nowhere to turn. Tabby’s Place was his last, best, only hope.

Hope is the ultimate occasion.

But hope is not for the hesitant or half-hearted. Hope is a hug with arms long enough for greatness and grief. And, all too soon, we were in the presence of both.

Mr. Man was due for a dental, so our vet team ran some routine pre-op blood work. The results knocked the song right out of us. As strong as he appeared, Mr. Man was in the end stage of leukemia.

The virus had overtaken his bone marrow, throwing his white blood count, platelets, and red blood count to the basement. Steroids and antibiotics would buy time, but not enough.

Never enough, when the occasion was meant to last forever.

Yet, if there was one last act of greatness we could give our best Man, it would be mercy. We would not let him suffer. We would pay heed to his glistening guac eyes and the punk rock of his purr. We would make every day the number one, all time, unprecedented occasion of unconditional love.

We would all change our last names to “Man” in our hearts, forever.

We will never stop missing Mr. Man.

But Mr. Man’s mission will never end. I believe we will feel his nose nudging us. Hey. That colleague of yours? The one whose quirks irk you? Go tell him he’s rad. Do it. Trust me. 

When our heads are down, we will feel his strong brow bumping ours. Hey. Glory Beast. Yeah, you. You have never been more phenomenal than you are right now– oh! Snap! You just got phenomenaller! 

When the world feels neither great nor good, a brush of black-and-white whiskers will make us sit up straight. Hey. This is an occasion. Look at the calendar. It’s Tuesday. Make me proud, ‘kay?

We will, Mr. Man. Until the glorious occasion of our reunion, we will love the way you loved us. It’s gonna be great.

Kitty LeFey adds:

“The sweet, tuxedoed gentleman in Suite H could have had no other name than Mr. Man, except maybe Mr. Wonderful, or maybe Mr. Big, or maybe Mr. Wonderful Big Man. By any name, Mr. Man was a really great guy. That’s how I would describe him to visitors. That’s what he was, a great guy: steady, gentle, easy going. Mr. Man was a pleasure to be with, and a calming presence for people and cats. Zen incarnate, yet wholly feline. I feel extraordinarily lucky to have had a chance to dote on him, to love him, and to gush about him on tours. It’s impossible to make sense of the fact that Mr. Man just arrived in July of last year. He was only with us a short time, but the love we shared with him was enormous.”

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