Happy July, Royal Family!

You are cooler than a sprint through the sprinklers. You are more magical than the music of the ice cream truck. You have more light than a sky full of fireworks. You are sweeter than the best blueberry at the farm stand.

You are the sum total of summer’s splendor, and that’s not me talking (although I agree): that’s a direct decree from your Queen, Prescott the Great and Good.

Yes, dear sponsors, Prescott is smitten with you. You are the reason for her July jubilations. It could have all turned out so differently for our silver sparkler. She could be staggering through heatwaves and hunger outdoors. She could be missing this summer entirely, lost on that January night when she fought for life.

But she’s here, because you’re here. So we’d best get to celebrating.

Prescott’s celebratory duties have been intense this month. I won’t go so far as to say there are rivals to the throne of exuberance, but our Lobby is lush with giddy goofballs, romping rapscallions, and miscellaneous purveyors of shenanigans.

Gone are the days when Prescott and Hips were the only energetic Lobby cats. It was not long ago that they were surrounded by long-tailed walruses and tabby turnips, left to gallop among the geriatric.

But now, the Lobby is leaping. Teenage Berry has made spina bifida his superpower, thundering through the atrium by the strength of his front legs. He’s happiest when wrestling with Colonel Peabody, paraplegic but peppy as popcorn.

Although Peabody is twice Berry’s size (and apparently a commissioned officer, in whatever branch of the military is also served by Captain Crunch), Berry is by far the wilder wrestler. Perhaps this is why Peabody, in a direct breach of the law of gravity, has discovered how to hoist himself all the way onto the reception desk.

(Let the reader understand that this is not just amazing or impressive. This is literally impossible. A paraplegic cat, incapable of jumping, has repeatedly and serenely vaulted five feet onto the desk. There are no accomplices. There is no explanation, other than that this is Tabby’s Place. Also, Peabody lives in proximity to Prescott, who basically breathes miracles in all directions.)

All of this amuses our Prescott. At times, she’ll cannonball directly into the fray, frolicking so fast her legs scarcely touch down. Our queen is too graceful and slippery to get stuck in a headlock, so she’ll spring like a rocket from any wrestling match she didn’t initiate herself.

At other times, it’s all paws on deck to disarm the “Ripple Rug,” one of the weirdest and most wonderful donations Tabby’s Place has ever received. How shall I describe it for you? It is a combination of a giant, soft graham cracker and the putting-practice game you gave your golfer Grandpa last Christmas.

This wriggly piece of carpet is covered in holes of various sizes, accommodating everything from a fat paw to (at least in Berry’s case) an entire cat.

If it sounds straightforward, that is because no words can describe the Ripple Rug.

Prescott would tell you that it is a time machine and a carnival ride. It is the best story you ever read and your favorite candy. It is also apparently full of fireflies, because our Queen and her vassals spend a great deal of time diving beneath it to catch them.

It is the song of the summer.

I’ll often catch Prescott’s eye while she’s rocking the Ripple Rug, or sprinting simply because that is what her soul requires. And, dear sponsors, I am telling you the truth: Prescott giggles.

I have seen this often enough to know I am not talking myself into it. Her beautiful eyes crinkle, her whiskers bounce, and Prescott lets loose the greatest laugh on Earth. It is as though she knows what a victory it is to be alive. It is an “impossible” happiness that we get to be here at all.

Prescott does not intend to miss a moment.

So you will understand why I assumed Prescott would not want to miss a moment I planned for the two of us. She is the cat I can count on when I am in need — whether of comfort or comedy.

I explained my situation. We were approaching my Tabbiversary (the anniversary of my joining the staff). I would prefer to celebrate this quietly, perhaps by feeding Prescott some squeeze-cheese and watching the entire extended-cut Lord of the Rings trilogy together while arguing about which cats would be which Hobbits in the Tabby’s Place remake. (Obviously, Bello would be Gandalf.)

But, no. A certain staff member, who shall remain anonymous except to say that it’s Karina, insists on celebrating us publicly, on social media. Being 49% feline, I am a little scared of the public, socializing, and media. But, if Prescott would help me, I would muster my courage.

All I needed was one good picture of the two of us.

If people had to see my face (and do the math on my eighteen-year tenure at Tabby’s Place: “Angela is … older than Gandalf”), the least I could do was offer them the world’s most perfect face, and preferably hide behind her.

Prescott was not having it.

Now we know: our Queen does not pose.

Prescott has too much dignity to care about being a celebrity. Besides, smiling for the camera requires holding still, while laughter is always in motion.

So, Prescott decreed that, in lieu of a photograph, we would reenact a scene from Les Miserables.

Be assured that no mammals were harmed in the making of this masterpiece, and Prescott has not stopped laughing since.

Beloved sponsors, in all seriousness, Prescott’s blithe life is the fruit of your kindness. There truly are no words to thank you enough for giving her the health, safety, and endless devotion she deserves. May your summer be as sweet as the love we feel for you.

With gratitude and affection, your correspondent,
Angela

PS: If we ever do make that Lord of the Rings reboot? This goes without saying, but Prescott would be Galadriel.