Rave on

Rave on

16226678609_8c431197da_zMuch like the New York Times, Felis Catus is committed to journalistic integrity.

Unlike the New York Times, Felis Catus has the advantage of feline editors.

Tink post-rave.
Tink post-rave.

Recently, we this particular dunderhead reported on Angel‘s triumph over closed doors. She freed Peachy from kittens. She freed Maggie from boredom. She freed Mario from Maggie.

But I must issue a correction: I greatly understated the magnitude of freedom Angel secured.

With all apologies to the fine folks who waged the Revolutionary War, this was the greatest liberation in American history.

Perhaps license is the more appropriate term.

Quaint little creatures that we are, we thought Angel’s open-door policy meant a few of our elder statescats would totter from lobby to Community Room and back. No harm, no foul. Peachy and Angel and Maggie and Mario were the mall-walkers club of Tabby’s Place. Cool beans for everyone.

But it has come to our attention that the cats intended no such quiet riot. In recent days, the Tabby’s Place Community Room has become home to a full-scale elderly rave.

Children of the nineties may remember the phenomenon of the rave. Otherwise well-mannered teenagers would pile into warehouses or garages or other unsavory locations to wear glow bracelets and scream and mosh and do unmentionable things in the dark.* Being slightly too young and much too dorky, I never attended an actual rave. But I had dangerous friends who did, and they always discussed these dark doings with wiggly eyebrows and proud mischief.

Morgan hearkens to the call of the Community Room.
Morgan hearkens to the call of the Community Room.

Now I know exactly what they were talking about, because it’s happening in the Community Room.

Tinkerbell is here, all four pounds and 60′ in diameter of wild grey hair. Aieeeeeeow! She is going to swing from the chandelier. (The chandelieeeeeeer…) As I began typing this post, she bounced onto my desk, screamed jubilantly in my face, and before I could even pet her, shot directly into the air like a Roman candle, landing on the top file cabinets.

Morgan has arrived, Morgan “My Heart Disease Is Incompatible With Life But My Heart Is Compatible With This Fresh Beatz” Rosenberg, all long nose and gentle walk and passion to party. He’s sleeping with one eye open in that minky pink bed, and when he sees you pull out the treat bag, his once-paralyzed legs will break into a dance that would make Pharrell cry. Play that funky music, orange-and-white boy.

Then there’s Blanche, nobody’s front-runner for Wildwoman of the Year. But just when we thought our British Shorthair lookalike might be channeling Queen Elizabeth, she tore into the Community Room getting down with her bad self and spinning Clash remixes.

It’s a fracas. It’s a free-for-all. It’s an aging affair of prom proportions, and the best we can do is step out of the way.

Kitten season may be bearing down on us in the next month or so, but those little ankle-biters are going to have to work hard to keep up with our shameless seniors. Rave on, upperclasscats — the Community Room is your cabaret.

*By which I mean, of course, listen to bands like The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. 

Photo credits from de top: Mark, Jess B, Mark.

3 thoughts on “Rave on

  1. Saw Morgan in pictures from the Open House – and Jonathan with his date, Peachy – enjoying the party. So wonderful the cats enjoy the freedom of the open door!

Leave a Reply