Happy June, dear Royal Family.

Being persons of dignity and distinction, you are no doubt aware that this is one of the happiest months of the year. June brings us the Strawberry Moon and the start of summer. It is fat with dahlias and celebrations. I have been informed that it includes National Hazelnut Cake Day (felicitations to all who celebrate).

But this is all secondary.

June is primarily a month in which both we and Prescott are alive, together.

Prescott is a genius by every definition. Naturally, she meditates on the splendor of life often.

By “meditates,” I mean “hosts a galloping, madcap, knee-slappin’ jamboree.”

Oh, dear sponsors, what a month of hijinks and hilarity it has been for Her Serene Highness!

To be honest, Prescott has pressed the outer limits of the word “serene.” As spring slips the baton into summer’s slaphappy hand, Prescott is pursuing silliness with all her might.

With whimsy rippling her stripes, she sprints the Lobby like a lady on a mission. Even as her midsection has grown more magnificent, our plush Prescott has only picked up speed. I believe she may be the fastest cat at Tabby’s Place.

Were it not for her summer obligations here in the realm, I know she would be heading to Paris to represent Tabby’s Place in several Track & Field events.

Actually, a trip to Paris might do Prescott good. (I could not live without her for sixteen days, so I would have to fold myself small enough to stow away in her suitcase. It can be done.) Lately, Prescott seems concerned that our Lobby is simply not enough world for her needs.

She has attempted to respond to this inconvenience by barreling through the doors to Quinn’s Corner every time they are open. Thus begins the real fun. Hapless humans attempt to corral a cat who knows she is Queen.

There is absolutely no question that she is laughing.

Compared to Prescott, we are mollusks in molasses. Fortunately, Prescott has mercy on our limitations, and she eventually submits to being herded back to her Lobby. (Correction: she submits to nothing. She pretends to submit. She wants us to feel good about ourselves. This is is akin to a chess grandmaster permitting a six-year-old to win at Candy Land.)

If this sounds like terribly good fun, you are correct. Prescott realizes that, by claiming Quinn’s Corner, she has nearly twice the runway length with which to gain momentum. I would not be shocked if she became airborne.

But before that happens, we molasses mollusks have to mess everything up.

Since Quinn’s Corner houses our cats infected with feline leukemia virus (FeLV), it’s not a safe place for Prescott to prance. She would have to run through multiple doors to reach our FeLV+ kitties, but that’s not a chance we’re willing to take.

Her escapades also bring her a bit too close to our bustling Sanctuary Operations Center, where volunteers dispatch dishes and laundry. Much as Prescott assures us that she would never get hurt, and that she is only doing the equivalent of visiting the “downstairs people” in Downton Abbey, we’ve put the kibosh on these promenades.

Being Prescott, our gracious lady has forgiven us. After all, it is June, and we are all alive together, and life offers limitless options for joy.

This is particularly fortunate given that three of them, Prescott’s friends Farva, Waffles, and Chickadee, have all been adopted this month. No doubt Prescott will miss them, but when your heart is as big as hers, you never have to be lonely.

Besides, she still has her sentimental rhinoceros, the irrepressible Hips.

Although the two adore each other, Prescott has had to remind Hips repeatedly this month that she is a lady. In his oversized exuberance, Hips sometimes plays a bit too rough or too long, pinning Prescott to the floor or following her when she needs a moment to herself.

But don’t be too hard on Hips. He is as sweet as a continent of nougat. At his worst, he’s basically a little boy in a backwards baseball cap, following our queen and saying, “Prescott? Prescott? Prescott? Prescott?”

And though it grieves me to report it, dealing with Hips may prove a valuable lesson for Prescott.

We know Prescott believes in the Golden Rule, but she has applied it imperfectly in the case of one small silver cat. No sooner has she recovered from Hips’ harassment, than Prescott replicates it. For reasons she is not yet ready to discuss, she feels the need to chase Smokey.

Dear sponsors, I have no explanation for this. Smokey is a delicate old gentleman, moved to the Lobby following a diagnosis of severe gastrointestinal issues. Smokey makes Mister Rogers look like Vin Diesel. Smokey is a great-great-grandfather in striped suspenders.

All Smokey wants is for life to move at the pace of oatmeal, and for people to kiss his head repeatedly.

Prescott thinks Smokey (pictured at left) needs a bit more speed.

Perhaps she is just reminding him how exciting it is to all be here, together, at this moment in history.

At any rate, we will redirect her regal zest. Prescott is in platinum health, peak happiness, and total love with her life and her sponsors.

I’m pretty smitten with you, too.

On behalf of Queen Prescott the Great and Good, thank you for loving our cats so generously. When you glimpse the Strawberry Moon this June, may you remember how brightly you shine in the Tabby’s Place galaxy.

Love, your correspondent,
Angela