It is a grand thing to love every cat.
It is an glorious thing to love one cat.
It goes without saying that we love every cat at Tabby’s Place. Whether they are snuggling or spitting, elated or enraged, they are cherished members of our family.
There is nothing they need to do to earn our love, and there is nothing they can do to lose it.
This applies equally to cats who turn into mashed potatoes in our arms, and cats who believe chin skritches are a capital offense.
Like it or not, they are loved. It is a life sentence, with several exclamation points.
But real love gets specific.
Love for all cats is noble. Love for Emperatriz is exquisite, because it is individual.
You cannot touch the tough, toffee cat with eyes like an empress’s jewels. She does not bestow warm fuzzies in the common currency of head-bonks and purrs. But at Tabby’s Place, multiple people proudly proclaim that Emperatriz is their favorite.
They will stand on tiptoe to slow-blink into her wary emeralds. They will sing little songs that bubbled up unbidden, just for her. They will wait until her shoulders soften and the corners of her eyes crinkle. They will emerge from Suite D shining, which is what happens when you love a friend exactly as they are.
Love as a way of life is powerful. Love for Bacon is life-giving.
Few cats have achieved longer tenure at Tabby’s Place. For over a decade, the silver statesman has occupied a private suite. Bacon’s rare seizure disorder dictates his days, prescribing rigid stability and an unwavering routine.
Visiting Bacon requires more delicacy than a state dinner, with considerably fewer hors d’oeuvres. But at Tabby’s Place, beautiful people bicker over who loves Bacon the most.
They treasure him on his terms, entering into his quiet with their hearts open. They offer him star-shaped treats, gathering them into little piles so his bleary eyes can see. They look forward to seeing him all week, then rush through their breakfast to get here.
Love without limit leads us on. Love for Theodosia takes us by the hand.
She is all 16+ of her years, and all out of regrets. She will not apologize for wanting your full attention, cawing your name in her bawdy Bea Arthur voice. She will not apologize for ruling out the possibility of a roommate, having terrorized a succession of sweet neighbors until we gave up and gave her the entire coatroom to herself.
She is proud to be the last surviving cat in the universe, a theory we will not question.
But this means you must make a point of visiting her. She is not part of the ambient entourage in a suite or the Lobby. You must book an audience with the queen.
Settle into your spot on the floor, and her rumpled fur will shine like silver. Keep up your end of the conversation, and our tiny talker’s half-inch tail nubbin will wag wildly.
Make time for Theodosia, and the time will come when she is your favorite.
Each one deserves to be the favorite — loved not in the abstract, but in their own stripes and moods.
Each one deserves the inefficient, unexplainable honor of being the one, the special one, the one who makes at least one someone sprint into the building to see them.
And that is the miracle: at Tabby’s Place, each one is someone’s one.
By some mysterious assignment, there is a devotee for every cat in the building.
Gather up all the staff and volunteers and ask everyone’s “favorite,” and no name will go unspoken. You might expect everyone to cluster around the crowd-pleasers, clowns and celebrities, the Berrys and Bellos and Prescotts.
But you will hear hearts overflow for Hircine and Pisa, Magda and Hoopla Green. Every cat at Tabby’s Place has a champion to cherish them.
There is no accounting for these bonds. There is only the wonder of counting to one.