Far be it from us to call a cat a turkey.
But, hypothetically, if we had to assign a Tabby’s Place resident that title, Anka would be the winner.
We want you to win, too.
We want you to break our hearts.
We want you to adopt Anka.
There is poetic justice in hyping the cat from Turkey two days before America’s poultry-centric holiday. But Anka is not defined by his past, nor by his preferred protein.
More accurately, Anka is not defined, period.
He is more nebula than noun, a cloud of fairy-tale hair around a 70,000-watt ego. He is jellybean sweetness on feet the size of a Clydesdale’s. He cannot walk, but he can rule.
He loves humanity in general and every person in particular. His bucket list consists of “loving every person, personally, in person,” and he means all nine billion, on all seven continents.
His bucket list once included “annihilating every cat, personally, in person,” but we erased that item and distracted him with squeeze-turkey.
If you come without squeeze-treats, you will not be able to distract Anka from his missions, plural. His eyes, green as the meadow where fairies dance, are always alert to opportunity.
Foremost is the chance to love you, in a purring pageant of presence and head-bonks that will leave you forever changed — if, that is, you are able to leave.
Anka does not want you to leave. Anka wants you to meld with him into a hairy casserole of cuddles. Sit on the floor, snuggle Earth’s strongest teddy bear, and you will forget everything sad. You will forget your own name, so bliss-blinded that all you remember is that you are unconditionally loved by the largest cat you have ever seen.
You will forget that Anka lives in our Volunteer Team’s office because he adores people, but he does not permit cats to live.
You will also forget that Anka is paraplegic. This was technically why he traveled from Turkey to Tabby’s Place. Yes, he needs his bladder expressed and medications administered. Yes, he can become aggressive for this. No, this does not define Anka.
You will not forget that Anka would like a ride in a cat stroller, because he will remind you. He will remind himself to remind you, and he will remind you to remind him to remind you, until you relent.
If you take another cat in a stroller, Anka will whimper with mewls so pitiful, people in Istanbul will hear across the Atlantic and feel sad. Anka does not want anyone to feel sad, so you had best get him into that stroller. It will be worth your while. Anka will enjoy the birdsong and breeze of the garden, but you will feel like you have returned to Eden.
You will not forget that Anka goes all goobly-gobbly at the glimpse of squeeze-turkey. Provide that stick of gelatinous magic, and Anka’s tongue will do the mambo, his eyes will cross (I am not making this up), and he will melt into the same texture as the treat. This is not a cat having a snack. This is a magical being having a mystical experience of intergalactic ecstasy.
Yet, for all the joy Anka receives, his mission has always been one of giving. He is here to lay his head in our laps like the bread of belonging. He is here to remind us that sitting in the grass is an on-ramp to heaven. He is here to come to our picnics and feed us the fun and friendship that reminds us: we are alive.
How has a cat so colossal remained at Tabby’s Place for seven years?
This is as mysterious as antimatter, as unsolved as Stonehenge.
Anka lives with paraplegia, but Anka is not paraplegia. Anka has murderous intent towards every cat who is rude enough to remain alive, but Anka is not his bawdy behavior.
Anka has so much love to give, his eyes go wild with longing, as though his tenderness might boil over and save the world if someone doesn’t hug him right now.
Anka is his love, oversized, over-the-moon, and as overstuffed as a turkey.
Anka is looking for someone big enough for a cat who could best be defined as “more.”
On at least one occasion, a visitor has erupted in the question, “is that a cat?” The answer is yes. The answer is “and then some.” The answer is, “Anka.”
Today, we wonder if the answer is you.
We want you to break our hearts.
We want you to adopt Anka.
Is your heart big enough?