In all the land, there is only one Gator.
We currently have him. He is ours.
We want you to take him.
We want you to break our hearts.
Every cat is unrepeatable, but only one says things that are unrepeatable on a family-friendly blog.
Every cat is solid gold, but only one is the precise color of fourteen karat nougat.
Every cat is a celebrity in his own eyes, but only one is convinced that he is Matthew McConaughey.
If your response is, “well, have you ever seen Gator and Matthew McConaughey in the same room at the same time?”, you are in the right place. You are at Tabby’s Place, where Gator is a one-cat gateway to everything being alright, alright, alright.
This is not because he occupies the approximate landmass of Texas, several kilometers of cat stretched in the sun. Gator is, indeed, enormous. There are longhorns lighter than this cat.
Yet his acreage is the least of it. Gator’s sandy stripes stretch from Austin to the Everglades, and upward into the stratosphere. Gator is larger than his own poundage.
Gator’s splendor is not found in his swagger, though that does cause seismic activity. It took confidence to deliver himself to his own deliverance. Other cats follow the proper channels from “hopeless situation” to Tabby’s Place. Gator showed up outside and pronounced himself The Greatness.
I believe his first words were, “I’m here. You’re welcome.” He hired a lawyer to get Bruce Springsteen to cease and desist using the title “The Boss,” which belongs exclusively to Gator. He met Steven, a cat as gold as himself, and he scheduled the first-ever Obese Orange Individuals’ Fight Night. Unfortunately, he advertised it, so we were able to intervene.
The glory of Gator transcends survival, although now we are getting close. There was a time when this tycoon was as lean as a penny. The Greatness turned gaunt, and the light in his eyes flickered. Swagger held less appeal than sleep.
Gator asked that, if he didn’t make it, we give him a New Orleans-style funeral, complete with jazz band and jambalaya.
But he winked as he said it.
Gator always knew he was going to make it.
He knew, even though the diagnosis was feline infectious peritonitis, FIP. This is the diagnosis that once made vets look away, gathering their strength to tell you the unspeakable. There was no cure. There was no treatment. There was only the dirge of death.
No cat returned from FIP. It was a terrible way to go, and the runaway train would not stop, not even if you were The Greatness.
So Gator hitched a better ride.
The Pandemic Express had just left the station. Scientists were doing hand-to-hand combat with COVID, but they found themselves high-fiving paws. The same studies that led to human treatments revealed that FIP can be cured. It just takes a painstaking protocol of antivirals … and massive, monumental moxie.
The Greatness would outlive, outlast, outsmart, and out-laugh the most dastardly disease known to cat. He would regain every ounce he lost, and they would each invite ten friends.
Yet, we have still not reached the real reason you should adopt Gator.
Gator may be an ego with whiskers. He will tell you that he was born a brown tabby, but all his winning turned him gold. He will attempt to remove all other cats from the premises, resulting in him having his own personal premises.
(This is a recurring Gator game. He has occupied two offices and one solarium with only human company. His eyes are on the White House, although he realizes this will be a considerable demotion from Tabby’s Place.)
Gator may have, in the honest assessment of our Behavior Team, a “significant history of aggression with cats and people.” This is true. We cannot lie.
But for all his bravado, Gator is not made of pride.
He is made of goodness.
Coast to coast, pink-rose nose to lasso-tail, Gator is the greatest friend you will ever know.
I know, because Gator graced the Development Office for some sweet, short months. He clog-danced on my desk until I pressed my forehead to his. He could smell anxiety (which has top notes of liverwurst but does not taste good), and he launched rescue missions. He looked sweet into my eyes and gathered my scattered pieces.
When I was sad, he swore like a sailor until I laughed. (If you have never heard a cat swear, I promise, it is possible.) He gazed at me until I remembered that everything is, in fact, alright, alright, alright.
His quantum kibble consumption reminded me that hunger gives way to happiness.
While he waits for you, Gator is making movies. He has convinced volunteers to promenade him through Tabby’s Place’s gardens in a stroller. He sits north of twenty pounds and on top of the world. He laughs at his own jokes, but also at ours.
His greatness is his kindness.
His ego is infinite, but accurate.
It’s all just practice for getting to be your Gator.
Please adopt Gator.
Please break our hearts.