Informed Consetta

Informed Consetta

Consetta is not a cat content to consent to others’ intent.

She is, however, ready to confiscate my keyboard.

People who are not “cat people” talk a great deal about cats’ imperiousness. They don’t usually use this word, of course; they’re more inclined to describe our favorite species as “suspicious,” or “aloof,” or “judgy.”

Generally speaking, they are gloriously wrong. But there are exceptions: cats who are truly judging us with every exasperated breath they draw.

Exhibit A: Consetta Rosenberg.

If you’re already confused, you’re not losing your gourd. (At least, this is not definitive evidence, although I can’t actually guarantee the current condition of your gourd.) Yes, we are speaking of the same Consetta who conquered Tabby’s Place not long ago. She arrived; she was adopted; she beat the game and carried off the spoils.

She also, being more beautiful and a good deal more French than the average feline, flaunted her good fortune.

As she took her final victory lap, Consetta cast a good long look at her traveling companions. “Quelle domage,” she tut-tutted at Grecca (who was howling like a one-cat hootenanny, as she does). “Quelle tristesse pour toi,” she snickered at Bellamy (who did not pause his one-cat Lobby Decathlon). “Quelle moron!” she fired off at Bosco, who looked at me with innocent eyes and asked, “That means ‘you’re my rad studly dude,’ right?” Which I think it does.

But pride, as they say, cometh before a fall, and when Consetta tumbled, she fell hard.

She’s back among the bumpkins, rubbing shoulders with the rubes and ravioli-heads all over again. And I’m just speaking of the staff.

To her horreur, Mademoiselle has returned to Tabby’s Place. It is a credit to les amis that they said nothing of her hasty haughtiness, but this brought Consetta no comfort.

But if we considered Consetta a smidge snide, we were the hasty ones.

As it happens, Consetta’s discomfort was entirely out of her control. Consetta was under the control of l’amour.

L’amour? Oui, chatons. Consetta, to our consternation, turned out to be…unspayed.

Any cat over the age of sixish months, still equipped with female equipment, is filled with enough frustration to flood the Seine. Heat hit hard, and Consetta’s symptoms were classic: howling, rolling, pining, paining.

Judgy? More like jumbled.

Fortunately, this is a problem easily solved, and so our vet team performed one very routine surgery on one very maddened Mademoiselle. Given that Consetta is far from kittenhood, her recovery took a bit longer than most, but as of this post she’s doing just fine.

Physically, that is.

Existentially, our tortie terrible is still feeling the heat.

It’s nothing a little Chanel couldn’t fix, but as Tabby’s Place’s fundraiser, I’m here to tell you that I’m not drumming up donations to drape our cats in couture. (This, combined with my nauseating opening sentence, is enough to make Consetta consider me a plouc.)

In the ultimate indignity, Consetta’s spay required that she — she who had once been naked due to skin issues! she whose tortie tresses of infinite elegance had just! grown! back! — be partially shaved once again.

Again, I bubble over in merci beaucoups to Bosco and the rest of the bourgeoisie for not rubbing this into our bougie belle’s (shaved) skin. Would that we could say the same for Consetta’s less considerate Community Room confreres.

Perhaps — sûrement this is the case — Carley Rose and Verde and Siesta and such are just overwhelmed to dwell in the presence of such grace. Très probablement they are smitten and snockered, and smacking Consetta upside the head is their way of expressing affection, kind of like throwing one’s undergarments at one’s favorite band. (I would never do this to Mumford and Sons, at least I don’t think I would, although I’m not signing any contracts, but I digress.)

Regardless, our most ravishing returnee is over it. Over them. Over the giddy idiocy all around her.

With a cry of “Casse-toi!”, she’s off to more Parisian pastures, which is to say the Lobby. Crack the Community Room door open a smidge, and she launches herself into what surely must be more sophisticated scenery.


The Lobby, aussi, is loaded with lunatics.

And so Consetta’s search continues. (And we gently return her to the Community Room.)

The right door will open.

Her elegance will be appropriately appreciated.

The peons will bow, and, in the right state of mind, she might even let us all eat cake.

Meantime, let’s not be too hard on our most imperious bébé.

When we’re honest, we’re all looking for a place that feels like home; a personal open door that no hand on earth can shut; a people (of whatever species) who speak our language and hear what we say before we breathe a word.

And if the heat must be on and you’re gonna be judged, it may as well be by a cat.

Nous vous aimons, La Reine!

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