Happy March, dear Royal Family!

Oh goodness, where do we begin?

How shall we bear all this happiness?

There is the sweetness of springtime, kidnapping the doldrums and dressing them in yellow daffodil top-hats.

There is St. Patrick’s Day, when shamrocks skateboard down rainbows until every lonely leprechaun finds a song.

And then there is the potbelly of silver that puts every pot of gold to shame. You and I don’t need a four-leaf clover. We have something better than birdsong.

We know Prescott. We are tycoons.

Lucky charms are powerless to do what our Queen accomplishes every morning. As drowsy humans descend upon her Lobby, Prescott’s eyes fill with stars, moons, mischief, and empathy. (And you thought you had a good recipe for stew.)

I witness it weekly. When her eyes light on someone glum, Prescott gallops. She parades. She runs invisible labyrinths with such speed, her own tail looks like it’s struggling to keep up.

And the grief-stricken ones start to giggle.
And the cranky ones get crinkles around their eyes, hogtied by their own smiles.

But “Prescott Power” is not reserved for those who feel unlucky. If you strut into Tabby’s Place feeling as sparkly as a shillelagh, Prescott will congratulate you.

She will prance before you, turning back repeatedly to smile into your eyes. (I am telling the truth; she does this, and she does it for everyone.)

It’s almost as though she is your personal color guard, sprinting to tell everyone, “behold, a great one cometh!”

I tend to believe this comes naturally to Prescott, but there are days that tax even her springy spirit. I’m afraid we — her loyal subjects — were responsible for one of those days this month.

It was decreed that Tabby’s Place was in need of building maintenance. Specifically — although such details are uninteresting even to Prescott, who finds every atom interesting — we needed our ducts cleaned.

In the Lobby.

Prescott’s Lobby.

Prescott offered to supervise. She noted (accurately) that befriending the Duct People would enrich their lives. She noted (accurately) that she is trustworthy in all circumstances, no exceptions. She noted (accurately) that, sometimes, Duct People bring turkey sandwiches for lunch, a matter of pressing Prescott interest.

But although she is Queen, her request was denied.

I tried to explain. It wasn’t that we didn’t trust Prescott. It wasn’t that we didn’t trust the Duct People. (Before even meeting them, Prescott already loved the Duct People. Why? They are people, and she is Prescott. Among her many titles: She Who Loves.)

I tried to tell her that we just didn’t want her to get hurt. She informed me that missing her chance at theoretical sandwiches hurt. I proceeded to kiss her until she forgave me.

When Duct Day came, Prescott maintained manners befitting a Queen. Together with Hips, Boobalah, and Antin, our lady would spend the day in our Exam Room.

If Hips were a human, he would be a twelve-year-old boy who refuses to turn thirteen. His baseball cap would always be backwards. And so, Hips, Prescott’s beloved hippopotamus, proceeded to pout. This was worse than a TikTok outage. This was worse than being banned from Minecraft. Hips turned to the wall and exuded frustration like a vapor.

If Boobalah were a human, she would be a meditation coach. She would coax everyone into deep breathing exercises. She would lower the collective blood pressure of New Jersey. (Actually, she has probably done this. Someone should measure.) So Boobalah, Prescott’s lady-in-waiting, dreamed through the day without distress.

If Antin were a human, he would be one of those guys in the World’s Strongest Man competition. You know the ones: fellas named Magnus and Lothar who can pull an eighteen-wheeler with their index finger. It is a minor inconvenience to Antin that his back legs have backed out of the obligation to walk. So our power paraplegic, Prescott’s merry acquaintance, just admired himself all day.

If Prescott were a human, she would do everything possible to become a cat again. So, exiled to the Exam Room, Prescott summoned her full felinity. She chose a bed, committed herself to cheer, and proceeded to expand three times in size.

I am not making this up, either. I promise I am not under the influence of green fluids.

Although Prescott wasn’t worried about her day of inconvenience, I was. I visited her five times an hour. And each time, I found her enthroned, and…enlarged.

I regret not taking a picture, but I am telling you, Prescott was…inflated. She was a silver zeppelin. She was one wicker basket short of a hot-air balloon.

And then, like it never even happened, she was back in the lobby, sprinting and springing and shamrocking our world. She returned to normal size. She galloped gratitude laps around her kingdom.

She looked at the Lobby like the most beautiful meadow on this green earth.

Which, actually, it is.

And that, dear sponsors, has everything to do with you.

Because of you, one shimmery little cat is incandescent with delight. She has serious Special Needs and the ability to forget them. She is safe enough to sprint, and loved enough to love back even more. She is springtime on four legs.

She is not lucky. She is blessed, beyond measure, to be “yours.”

On behalf of Queen Prescott and all the Tabby’s Place cats, thank you for your generosity. You are the four-leaf clovers of the human race. You are the gold that shines in the darkness.

You are very dear to Prescott and me.

Happy spring, most beautiful people.

Love, your correspondent,
Angela