Happy Valentine’s Eve, beloved sponsors!

Let’s get this out of the way first. Whatever your feelings about this complicated, chocolate-coated holiday, this stands to be your best Valentine’s Day ever.

You are living at the marshmallow center of the truffle. Your name is written in curly cursive on the handmade card with extra glitter. You are not a dozen roses; you are the whole garden, from the shaggy marigolds to the dreamy peonies.

I write this with confidence, and Prescott notarizes it. We have read your sonnets. January to December, you are The Valentine. You choose to love someone small. You choose to give what you could keep.

You choose to celebrate a silver cat whose tail droops but whose eyes sparkle.

You choose the love that quietly saves the world day after day. To which I say: if any living creature should enjoy this Valentine’s Day, it’s you.

And Prescott.

Prescott, of course, lives by her own calendar. She has petitioned Congress to declare her Prescottversary a national holiday.

But she’s not waiting to celebrate. As I type this update, the rain is torrential outside her Tabby’s Place (you do know that her name is on the deed, yes?). It is that merciless horsefly rain that bites your skin and discourages the sky. The world slumps under a spell of grey.

Or silver, depending on who you ask.

Prescott is sprinting the hall between her lobby and her Quinn’s Corner (yes, she owns that, too). Her feet tell jokes to the hardwood floor, and they laugh so loud together, she slides. People squish by in sneakers that make funny sounds, and Prescott trots to their side. She grins greenly in their eyes. Why are they not trotting, too? Why do they hide their droopy parts?

Do they have any idea how adorable and astonishing they are, all covered in raindrops?

It is not a rainy day. It is a holiday. It is Valentine’s Day multiplied by all the other holidays.

Prescott would prefer that we all see the world through her smitten eyes. I see it when she catches me with my head down. She knows how to head-bonk me when my bangs are frizzy and my peace is poached. She knows when to throw her little thunderbolt body down, rolling like music until I remember my place in love’s orchestra. She knows when to leap onto Hips, attempt to ride him like a circus hippopotamus, and then look back at me, as if she needed to clarify, I am trying to make you laugh.

Prescott has a stellar success rate for Prescotting my day. One heart-to-heart or salsa lesson with Prescott, and I am on the mend. Others are tougher critics. But when friends spurn her suggestions of sunshine, there are no hard feelings. I have seen her invite Boobalah for a play date, when Boobalah has already made plans with sleep or salmon. I have seen Prescott solicit random UPS drivers for a dance, only to waltz with herself quite contently when their answer is “huh?”

She has already heard the answer she needed. Unconditional love cried “yes!”, and its echo stretches to eternity. The cat who arrived in a state of emergency is now immune to urgency. So, someone doesn’t want to play with her. So, the humans are going to keep squeezing her bladder three times every dang day. So, treats may not be forthcoming with all due speed.

So, Prescott is still going to enjoy the holiday. All of them. Simultaneously. She is the sum total of all the love she has ever received. She is on a mission to out-give us all. I would not bet against her.

I would be remiss if I did not report on Prescott’s health. But I would have to make stuff up to put anything in that report. That’s right: Prescott is the picture of wellness. She is also an increasingly three-dimensional picture as her belly gets a little bit softer and more…sizable. Fortunately, Prescott is incapable of being any size other than Perfect.

She would also say the same about you.

She would also join me in saying “thank you” for making Tabby’s Place one never-ending Valentine’s Day. You, dear sponsors, are living poetry. You are the rhythm of thriving. You are generosity and grace. You are smitten with a cat who others call “imperfect.”

You are the Valentine of the Queen.

Happy continual holiday, sweet sponsors.

Your mushy correspondent,
Angela