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Stormin'

Stormin'

storm1It is unwise to walk directly into the path of an oncoming tornado.

It is equally risky business to attempt to describe Storm straight-on. Better to go by way of metaphor.

If he were an Olympic sport, Storm would be skeleton. He faces life head on, at over 90 miles an hour, devoid of fear or friction.

This would be Storm. Can you stand it? Can you bloody stand it, this level of gloriousness and victoriousness?
This would be Storm. Can you stand it? Can you bloody stand it, this level of gloriousness and victoriousness?

If he were a weather phenomenon, he would be bombogenesis, because it’s explosive and mesmerizing (and would be a good name for a reggae group).

If he were a McEdible, he’d be ribs sandwiched in bacon-studded pancakes in a pizza breadstick bowl, because he’s much too much of a good thing (which is wonderful).

But he’s a cat, so he’s much, much more than all of that. Feast your eyes on the Storm of the century.

Life and love have a way of sending just what we need at just the right time, and Storm didn’t smash into Tabby’s Place a moment too soon. People will be talking about “the winter of ’14” for many seasons to come. They’ll tell tales of thundersnow and school closings and the road-salt shortage. They’ll talk of the polar vortex and the days when it was too cold even for a baaaar to drink from the crick.*

But we’ll talk of the winter when we said too many goodbyes, one after the next after the next. Ache upon ache upon ache.

It was into this climate that Storm swirled upon us, all wild Einstein hair and Renoir-painting eyes. Upon seeing him, each of us made the erudite and insightful comment, “He’s hyoooooooooge!”

Storm is not messing around. Life was enough of a mess when he scrapped through a Philly auto salvage yard, dodging ice pellets and bombogeneses and all the wild winds of the ghetto. Somehow, Storm managed to remain hyoooooooooge even under those circumstances…and so did his ego.

By the time he came to us, Storm was approximately an F500,000, raging and wriggling and using every word in his salty vocabulary. As he kicked his pantalooned legs against his new human friends, I marveled, “Wow! He’s magnificent! What is he, 20 pounds? Maybe even 25?” (Note: when your friends are bravely doing an intake exam on a hyoooooooooge, angry cat, this is an excellent time to ask them random questions. They will appreciate it immensely.)

“Just 15,” Danielle replied, while parrying Storm’s attempt to slash her head clean off.

The scale indeed claims that Storm weighs a mere 15 pounds. But don’t give this too much attention. Every one of those pounds is packed with glory, and Storm’s fur alone makes him approximately the size of Belgium.

Because I, for one, cannot stand it. THUD.
Because I, for one, cannot stand it. THUD.

This could all make for a fearsome fire-beast if Storm stayed angry. But as the winds of change subsided and Storm realized just where he’d touched ground, bright sunshine swept his soul. Love began to course through his veins with irresistible force, and he’s been sweeping us off our feet ever since. (He hasn’t yet decided whether he’ll use his heft for good or evil when it comes to his neighbors in Suite B, but we’ll take what we can get.)

Storm is one of those cats with the ability to very efficiently reduce the human brain to a puddle of goo.** Again, it is difficult to describe this in straightforward language. If you tell an uninitiated mortal, “I like to stare at a big giant cat and pet him for hours on end,” such a person will think you dim.

And such will be such a person’s loss.

As with many things, Storm’s intoxicating affection is much, much better than it sounds. Think of a fabulous song that moves your feet, like…oh, say, Bobsled Time (written by Jamaica for the express purpose of celebrating their first bobsled team to qualify for the Olympics in 12 years). If you just look at the lyrics, you may not be lifted to the heights of rapturous inspiration:

Run The Track. Run The Track.
Run The Track. It’s Bobsled Time.

Run The Track. Run The Track.
Run The Track. It’s Bobsled Time.
It’s Bobsled Time.
It’s Bobsled Time.
It’s Bobsled Time.

T.S. Eliot, eat your heart out.storm4

But a mere description cannot capture the glorious awesomeness that is Bobsled Time. Click here. Do it. I’ll wait. Now just tell me you weren’t all kinds of happy in your heart.

Likewise, mere words can only fail to echo the experience that is Storm. Even if you’re feeling like Mr. Yuk and Mr. Snow Miser combined when you enter his orbit, Storm promises to leave you smiling like a goofy gleeful noodlehead. (Double bonus if you sing Bobsled Time to him.) Let Storm sweep over you, and you’ll be warmer than a feverish Hot Pocket in a Snuggie.

And so, kittens, I shall throw down the gauntlet. Come. Celebrate winter’s end with our perfect Storm. You must meet him in person.

And he must meet you.

*Because, naturally, historic weather makes us all suddenly sound like we’re from Alabama. Naturally.

**OK, who are we kidding? All cats have this ability. Guh-huh.

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