There’s a new diva in town, and that’s diva with a capital D-I-V-A.
Make that D-I-V-A in 80-foot-tall neon letters, encrusted in sparkles.
Every cat is a beauty, and every cat is a superstar. But at Tabby’s Place, we have exactly one cat who is certain she is the flippin’ supermodel of the world.
Each Monday starts a new Fashion Week for this fancy creature. Every surface of Suite C is a runway for her snow-white feet. And every living thing – feline, human, dragonfly, great mole rat, it doesn’t matter – is a fawning admirer. Or at least, they are if they know what’s good for ’em. Because in the Suite C of Summer 2011, it’s Popoki’s way or the highway period.
Ah yes. That name.
It’s been mangled a hundred ways (I’ve heard “Pappy,” “Papaya” and “Peepeepoopoo,” among others). But no ordinary name would do for this feline phenomenon, so our Siamese-y, Snowshoe-y wonder became…Popoki. That’s “cat” in the Hawaiian language. It’s also apparently “awesome” in the tawny-brown-blue-eyed-feline language.
Everything Popoki does, every look she casts, whispers: I am the one that I want. I am the queen of the night. I am all that and 400 bags of chips. I am…Popoki.
Remember when Prince – that is, the artist formerly known as the artist formerly known as Prince – changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol? I always thought it would be especially impressive if someone one-upped him by changing their name to a fragrance. That way, if you ever wanted to refer to them, you’d have to carry a vial around at all times, and spray it to communicate their essence. If ever anyone had the ego to pull off such a feat, it would be Popoki. I can even see the fragrance ads now: Do you want to smell like…superiority? Imperiousness? Loftier-than-thou loveliness? You deserve…Popoki, for cats.
I jest. But only a little. The truth is, Popoki doesn’t just look like a supermodel…she does, in fact, have the ego and the ‘tude to match. No Naomi Campbell phone-throwing scene could compete with Popoki’s legendary hissy fits. The diva will have her day, and if there are any wrinkles in her plans – like, say, another cat’s breathing at an inconvenient moment – she will have something to scream about it.
Most of the time, though, our beauty is content to live and let live. (Which is a nice way of saying “look down upon all the other cats with a superior, slightly-repulsed look on her face…but allow them to live.”) Not that she (ever) allows her roommates to forget that they are domestic shorthairs, and she, Popoki, is something fancy. If one of the mere commoners should dare to affront her, she doesn’t hesitate to make them talk to the paw – or, if need be, talk to the swished tail, ’cause the paw don’t like ’em.
That’s our Popoki.
In all honesty, our fanciest of cats is quite a love. She’ll rub her angular, elegant face against your hand until Dior is out of fashion, and continue to purr long after Vivienne Westwood becomes passe. (I was going to write “until the cows come home,” but Popoki does not do down-home, country, rustic metaphors. Or mud. I dare not offend our glamazon.) It will take just the right human heart to fit Popoki’s beauty and her brashness, but that heart is out there. When the day comes that Popoki sashays home, and the catwalks of Suite C cease to be runways, a sigh of relief may go up from the uncommon “commoners” she leaves behind.
But until then, we’ll cherish our most stylish character, and love her for all she’s worth – because, as she’s happy to remind us, she’s worth it. And her physical beauty is only the least of Popoki’s glow.