The truffles are on final sale, and the flowers are looking a little ragged.
The world has moved on to shamrock antennae and Easter baskets.
But around here, we’re still talking about Valentine’s Day.
After all, this is Tabby’s Place. This is where Fergie and Rihanna live.
I hear your exasperated sigh. Perhaps you were relieved to have a 364-day respite before the next Valentine’s Day. You thought Suite I was a safe haven for anyone who gets wriggly around romantic cliches.
Like we said, that’s where Fergie and Rihanna live.
Fergie has not spent one hour of her life waiting for a rose. She has approximately 1.25 ears and unfailing intuition. She is hand-painted in the colors of all the oatmeal cookies baked by all the grandmas since the dawn of time. She has neurological issues and no regrets. She is unsteady on her feet and secure in her worth. She is FIV+ and indubitably positive that this world needs more Fergies.
She is absolutely correct.
Then you have Rihanna, all russet rhythm and sunset-striped self esteem. Rihanna does not pine for acceptance. Rihanna is too busy spreading light. When Rihanna was born, some cosmic accounting error resulted in her having ninety-nine times more radiance than the average star. Rihanna has a suppressed immune system and an unsurpassed infatuation system.
Fergie and Rihanna do not keep a calendar in Suite I. If you told them they were supposed to yearn for love on Valentine’s Day, they would look at you funny. Their yearning is otherwise occupied.
Fergie is the cat found under a shed with a “dead” jaw. She kept her smile against all odds, and now she yearns to pass it on.
Rihanna is the cat whose colors catch adopters’ eyes, but whose constipation knocks her out of contention. She contends that she is a winner anyway, and by the way, so are you.
She is absolutely correct.
So if you were looking for a place to hide out until Valentine’s Day was over, Suite I is your spot. Our single torbies will take you in. They will not ask if you are seeing anyone, so long as you are gazing in their eyes. They will not listen to talk of being un-chosen or un-tethered, because when you’re in Suite I, you are the center of the truffle and the center of attention.
But they will not deny that they are Valentines, before, during, and after February.
Fergie was found before she was wanted. She was threadbare, disoriented, and in the active process of dying. Life had chewed off her ear, her health, and her seat at the table of Loved Creatures.
But the FIV+ cat built like a tetherball found a stronger cord. She could not earn it. She didn’t have to.
Tabby’s Place braided her into our lives. The record says that we saved her life, but we are the ones who keep getting Valentines. Fergie hops up on a cardboard scratcher shaped like the infinity sign. She is stumbly, shining, and certain you will pet her with both hands. She is a recent cancer survivor, confident that the best is yet to come.
She is absolutely correct.
Rihanna had no home in her own hemisphere. She was born in Beirut. She saw things our suburban imaginations cannot comprehend.
But the cat without a country came into her queendom. She could not earn it. She didn’t have to.
Tabby’s Place bowed before her dignity. The party line is that we rescued Rihanna, but she is the one who makes us feel safe. Rihanna awards you her rubs and her radiance before you can ask. You may be single, or sullen, or severely allergic to hope. You may have just watched Casablanca for the forty-forth time, or eaten your own weight in caramel Snoopys.
What matters is that you are here. Rihanna will declare you a Valentine. Fergie will second the motion.
They are absolutely correct.
Out of all the cat suites in all the towns in all the world, you got to walk into theirs.
Two torbie hearts will make you wish it was that complicated holiday all over again.
And then, you will realize you are still talking about Valentine’s Day.
After all, this is Tabby’s Place.