If you’re looking for a lucky number, 1706 is available. It’s a goodie, too.
Benjamin Franklin was born in 1706. Some fun-lovin’ folks signed the Treaty of Altranstädt in 1706.
And at Tabby’s Place, cat number 1,706 is Marcia.
We want you to adopt Marcia. We want you to break our hearts.
Why has Marcia not been adopted? The only working hypothesis is that you have not yet come along.
Marcia is perfect. “Perfect” is in the eye of the beholder, but the only golden eyes to which we are beholden are Marcia’s.
Besides, ninety-nine percent of scientists agree that there is no more perfect life form than a black kitten. (Don’t worry about the last one percent. That’s Dr. Baby Yoda. We will discuss his dissent in a moment.)
Among infallible mammals on licorice legs, there is one kitten to rule them all. After Marcia, every perfect kitten requires a footnote, clarifying, “not Marcia.”
Does Marcia appear to be nine years old? Clean your glasses. You are looking at a kitten, for whom age is irrelevant.
So why not Marcia?
There are the usual explanations, but they are as glumpy as a gingerbread house made of wet cardboard.
Yes, Marcia was adopted and returned. Sometimes things don’t work out. You don’t let “things” do a number on you when your number is 1,706.
Yes, Marcia struggles with change, particularly if the environment is loud. If that makes anyone unadoptable, we are all in trouble.
Yes, Marcia was once known to sample human forearms like meat logs. But what higher compliment than to compare us to a charcuterie board?
And, really, would you like to be remembered for that one time you bit Eddie Monahan in second grade, because he called you “bodacious” and you thought it was an insult?
Marcia does not take anything as an insult.
She was born with a chocolate-kiss nose and immunity to the sting of the semisweet. Disappointment may lumber into her life, but it finds nowhere to sit down.
Across nine years of kittenhood, Marcia’s experiments have been unanimous. Kindness outlives confusion. Love does not flinch at nibbles. Perfection perseveres.
A casual observer might remark that Marcia has “settled down” with age. Her staccato nerves have loosened into an adagio ease. Step into her cottage, and she will welcome you with the feline equivalent of cookies and cocoa.
But Marcia would say she never changed. She has only become more perfectly Marcia.
This is what happens when your key-lime eyes are open. Marcia does not look away from life. She sees sadness ripple your forehead, and she joins you in silent solidarity. She hears you laugh like a warthog, and she twirls around your ankles. Perhaps you are still a kitten, too.
She is your velvet heating pad, capable of protecting you from your inner arctic. She can locate you when you are lost, catching the clouds in your eyes. She can turn from black kitten to black crow, the ageless symbol of luck and change.
She has learned that everything will change. She has decided that change is good, even for the perfect.
After all: her sorrows and shenanigans all led to Jonathan’s office.
Right.
There is the small matter of breaking our Founder and Executive Director’s heart. Marcia is Jonathan’s supervisor, sibyl, and sweetheart. They know each other’s secrets. Marcia has experienced Jonathan’s entire playlist, from ABBA, to Captain Beefheart, to whatever zany Zydeco is pouring out on any given day.
Jonathan has experienced Marcia’s perfection first-hand.
Jonathan wants you to break his heart, too.
There is one last heart we must consider. There is a scientist the size of a sweet potato in Jonathan’s office. The infatuation is strong with this one. He is Baby Yoda, and his powers have dispatched deadly FIP and Marcia’s disinterest.
Baby Yoda believes there is one thing more perfect than a black kitten. Baby Yoda believes that perfection is a black kitten with a Baby Yoda affixed to her side.
Baby Yoda is love-struck.
Baby Yoda is normally as timid as tissue paper. Baby Yoda would be too nervous to ask his own grandmother to dance. But for Marcia, Baby Yoda summons his forces. He whispers to himself, “Do or do not; there is no try.” He creeps, quiet as light, into Marcia’s window. He is too cute to be creepy. Even Marcia has to admit this. She permits him to snuggle her.
Baby Yoda believes in miracles.
Baby Yoda believes that #1,706 is his lucky number.
Mathematicians will tell you that arithmetic is beautiful. Earth’s most beautiful cat would agree. Every iota of #1,706 adds up to love. Marcia bakes like a brownie in the window, because she is still young enough to be surprised by sunshine. Marcia speeds to your side, because she can hear your good heart from across the room.
Marcia’s wing span is as wide as love, and she stands outstretched to enfold you.
Adopt Marcia, and you will become more fully yourself. Love will etch perfection on your palms every time you pet her. You will take care of one another, two oversized kittens on one great quest.
Adopt Marcia, and you will break our hearts.
It will be the break of the pinata, the thwack that frees the sweets. Tears will flow at Tabby’s Place, but dancing will dry them.
We want you to break our hearts.
We want you to adopt Marcia.