Martha, Martha, Martha

Martha, Martha, Martha


Some Marthas make stenciled toilet-paper holders.

Some Marthas make friends in prison.

And some Marthas make the journey from death’s door to loud, proud life.

Martha soaks up the sweetness casa Denise.
Martha soaks up the sweetness casa Denise.

Our Martha was first introduced as “cat hit by car Rt 202 — can u help?”

Black cat? White cat? Male cat? Female cat? Thundercat? We knew not. But based on the little we knew, and the circumstances Providence provided, we could help.

The little we knew of Injured Mystery Cat’s situation was ominous. IMC had been struck by some sort of vehicle (double-decker bus? aircraft carrier? mystery machine?), and was in some state of brokenness. S/he was maybe paralyzed. Or maybe not. Or possibly dying. Or maybe entirely fine. It wasn’t clear.

At any rate, IMC needed TLC in a flash.

Useless as I generally am when it comes to medical matters, I was the only one available to collect Injured Mystery Cat from the local vet where s/he’d been deposited and to chauffeur s/him to the emergency hospital. When I got to the local vet, I said something highly insightful, like “I can haz broken cat for to fix?” When I brought IMC to Dr. Fantastic, my string of sterling explanations continued with, “Here be broken cat. You can fix?”

Pitying their dunderheaded Development Director, the rest of the Tabby’s Place staff let me name my passenger. Going with the “Injured Mystery cat is fixin’ to diiiiiiie” version of events, my brain settled on a name related to resurrection: Lazarus.

Then the local vet informed me: “She’s female.”

OK, then — Lazarus’ sister, Martha. (She had some savvy things to say about the idea of coming back from death, anyway.)

Martha Rosenberg loves Denise more than Martha Stewart loves decoupage.
Martha Rosenberg loves Denise more than Martha Stewart loves decoupage.

When I met Martha, she was squiggled into the back of a carrier, golden eyes the only thing shining from a mass of black fur. Her mouth hung open, due to either (a) astonishment at the joy of meeting me or (b) a broken jaw.

The local vet informed me: “She has a broken jaw.”

OK, then.

News came fast and phenomenal once we got to Dr. Fantastic. Martha was not dying. She was not paralyzed. And, despite that tipped ear, she was not feral — no more than Sherpa. Other than a mangled leg and that busted jaw, the little black cat was remarkably unbroken — especially her spirit.

After some minor repair work at the specialist, Martha came home to Tabby’s Place, and then on to Denise’s house for a deluxe version of Quarantine. Denise tenderly nursed our little resurectee back to health, with belly rubs and gentle physical therapy each day. Finally, this week, delight came full circle when Martha, a mystery no more, made Tabby’s Place her home.

Martha joins Mona as one of two righteous babes in a sea of burly boys in Suite FIV. She’s been so fearless and breezy with us that it’s hard to imagine her having any sort of trouble with the lads. “Excessive confidence” is the coin of the realm in Suite FIV, and Martha can match gastons like Charlie and Lester step for swaggering step.

Make no mistake, kittens: Ms. Stewart is not the only Martha growing her own omnimedia empire.

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