Anka may not know how far you live from your family, or what you would give to taste your grandma’s snowball cookies one more time.
Prescott has not yet heard your Dad’s corny jokes, or why Thanksgiving always makes you weepy.
But you will have the chance to tell them.
Because, whatever goulash of emotions you’re sloshing through this holiday season, you are invited home for this holiday: Thanksgiving with the Cats.
Maybe your family is the portrait of peace, and the only tension at Thanksgiving is when you all try to give each other the biggest slice of pie.
Maybe your family is scattered across state lines and strong opinions, or the empty chairs are full of grief.
Maybe you’re not quite the black sheep of the family … more like a rainbow feral cat who lives under the porch, and no one is sure what to do with you.
You, exactly as you are, are exactly who we need at Thanksgiving with the Cats.
The third Saturday in November, Tabby’s Place turns into a family reunion for radiant ragamuffins like you and me.
It is an ingathering of the awkward and awesome, an all-points-bulletin for beloveds of two species.
It is the opportunity for Olive and Oliver to outdo each other in adoring you. One may bite you. The other one may hug you so tightly, your double helices get tangled so tight you are actually brothers by the time you stop embracing. Both will embrace you.
Everyone here will embrace you.
If you have never been to Tabby’s Place, we want you here. If you have been to Tabby’s Place every day for twenty-three years, we want you here.
Willow wants you here, because Willow believes you are The Sauce. If no one at your family table considers you The Sauce, Willow will make up for their oversight by doing wheelies around your ankles in high-speed infinity signs.
Clifford wants you here, because Clifford heard that you love cats named Clifford. Clifford heard that you hear words like “feline leukemia virus,” or “hard to adopt,” or “the most imperious egomaniac since Napoleon, only shorter,” and you translate them into “lovable, lovable, lovable.” Clifford wants to hear your voice. Somebody told Clifford that your voice is the exact song that the angels sing at their own Thanksgiving dinner.
Clifford heard that from Rihanna down the hall, who also wants you here. Rihanna wants you here, because Rihanna saw a picture of you, and the family resemblance was so astounding, she toppled right over.
She might also have toppled over because her body type is “stuffed mushroom on four small toothpicks,” but regardless, Rihanna knows you are her kin. If she could, Rihanna would make you a giant coconut snowball cookie, except it would be solid cod, and also, she would eat it.
Odessa will eat anything you bring her. But mostly, she will eat you up with her eyes, those awestruck orbs of infatuation. Odessa is like the auntie who kisses both your cheeks while cooing, “I could just eat you up!” Except, Odessa will not try to set you up with that nice boy down the street. Odessa wants you here because you are already complete, and you do not need to compete with anyone to be her favorite.
Baby only wants you here because you will spoon-feed him baby food. Well, every family has that one blunt uncle. Come feed your Uncle Baby.
They all want you here, these family cats of ours.
They want you to lay down on the floor beside them, like twin Jabbas the Hutt, with full bellies and full confidence that this family sticks together.
They want you to hold them, and pause time, and preempt the holiday hustle for a few hours of pure, buttery presence.
They want you to take this day to remember that family spans species and struggles, and under this roof we are all safe, together.
Thanksgiving with the Cats is a day for children, and ancients, and all the mushy middle-agers who feel childlike and ancient in the span of a single hour.
This is a day for introverts, and extroverts, and acrobats, and all the anxious exquisite animals whose DNA is love.
Come, all ye vegans, and bacon makers, and people who bring their own peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches to fancy restaurants.
Come, with your holey sweatpants, and your empty hands, and your big, soft, doughy, divine hearts.
No one will ask anything from you on this holiday. Your admission ticket is your existence. Tabby’s Place is your place, your sanctuary. There are many seats at this table, although most of us spend most of the time on the floor.
We will give you little plastic tubs of turkey to feed the cats, and when they are empty, your cup will overflow.
We will have all sorts of muffins and brownies and cat-shaped confections, but you will remember the bread and butter of belonging.
We’ll be selling cat ears in many colors, but when you go to sleep on the night of 11/21, you will dream of the place where all your colors came home.
We want you here because you love the cats, from the smallest to the greatest. You love the roly-poly cherubs and the garlicky old curmudgeons, the ones who purr your praises and the ones who hiss and spit and fart at you.
We want you here because you belong home for this holiday.
We want you here because you have the same last name as the cats: Lovable, Lovable, Lovable.
So, please come home this holiday. Love’s table is set, and there is a tag with your name on it. There is also a Tag with your name on her wish list. Let Thanksgiving with the Cats be your gift to yourself this holiday season.
Your Uncle Baby is waiting.
And if you would like a preview of what you, yes you, will experience on the 21st, a few of our cats sacrificed their time to make these independent documentaries just for you.