We have many ways to describe a short-tempered cat.
They are zesty and sassy, carbonated and opinionated. They are curmudgeonly and persnickety and assertive and Olive.
You can call them cayenne or jalapeno or gingery or spicy.
But it turns out you can’t call them Spicey.
For years now, we have used “spicy” as a diagnostic term. It is embedded in the Tabby’s Place vocabulary.
“Spicy” cats are admired, revered, and heavily medicated before nail trims. “Spicy” cats are liable to bite you, get cast on Bravo reality shows, and be Olive.
But one cat has thrown our spice cabinet into disarray.
Long Island’s sweetest tuxedo is not spicy. Long Island’s sweetest tuxedo is Spicey. She makes the sugar plum fairy look like an extra from Goodfellas. She makes Mister Rogers look like a bad guy on Traitors. She makes your own grandmother look like an unsavory character.
She is making us look up alternatives to “spicy” in the dictionary, because our vocabulary is now void.
I suppose there are spices synonymous with Spicey. She is as warm as cumin and as earnest as anise. Like turmeric, she turns everything she touches gold. There’s a rumor that her spicier sister, Sophie, once had a boyfriend named Holy Basil. But, everyone has a past.
And that’s Spicey’s secret ingredient.
Spicey’s present is gentle because her past was grand. Spicey’s present to us is the flavor of being savored for exactly who you are. This is a delicacy so rare, it cannot even be found in Flavortown.
But apparently, it is native to Long Island.
Long Island is where Spicey was loved so strongly, it seasoned her all the way down to her soul. Spicey’s mom was the kind of cook who does not use measuring spoons. The only appropriate quantity of affection is “immeasurable.”
And don’t bother with the generic stuff. Always spring for the unconditional kind. That kind of love costs everything. It is worth the price.
It is worth even the pungent snap of grief.
Spicey came to our cupboard when her mom’s passing turned their cozy kitchen quiet. Yet even now, their bond is unbroken. Spicey swirls and purrs in new arms with an old confidence. She expects sweetness as a matter of course.
When you have been loved strong enough, you believe love is everywhere.
When you are too Spicey to be spicy, you are generally right.
Since Spicey feels no need to be hot-tempered, she can skip over the typical warm-ups. Why delay the feast by sniffing fingers or playing hard to get? Let cautious or chompy cats plod through such preliminaries.
Spicey proceeds from “stranger” to “soulmate” before you have a chance to sit down. She is in your lap before you actually have a lap.
But I must warn you: high doses of Spicey have permanent side effects.
Not only will you never again be able to use the word “spicy” in the same way. You will also never be able to refer to yourself in harsh terms.
The next time you spill mac ‘n cheese all over yourself, or wave at a stranger you thought was waving to you, just as you are about to mutter “idiot” or “dummy” or “baboon-faced blob of a goop” in your own direction, you will stop. Your unkindness will clog up like peanut butter.
You will remember the way Spicey accepted and adored you.
You are liable to call yourself “sweetheart.”
Maybe spicy cats are not as dangerous as Spicey after all.
PS: And maybe you will be as unsurprised as we are that Spicey has been adopted. When it comes to a home, the sweetest flavor is “forever.”