This might not be apparent to the naked eye, but Tabby’s Place offers a doctoral program in mathematics.
Take it from a naked guy with stars in his eyes.
I’m talking about Trifecta, of course. Who did you think I…? Don’t answer that question.
Trifecta laughs at my bad jokes. Trifecta laughs at all my jokes. (I am being redundant.) Trifecta laughs preemptively whenever someone risks telling a joke.
Trifecta laughs, because humor is brave.
Do not tell me that a cat can’t laugh. Crouch down to eye level with Trifecta, and you will know what I know. One of his eyes is milky with stars disguised as scarring. Both of his eyes scrunch ahead of the punch line.
Trifecta will spend his last electron ejecting you from a bad mood. If he is exhausted, he will not tell you. He will pad across the solarium with pleasure and purpose. He will fix his eyes on your empty lap. He will fix that problem and refuse to talk about his own problems.
This is because Trifecta is a mathematician.
Some might say Trifecta is a begging bowl on stubby legs. Trifecta is the train station where luck forgot to stop. Trifecta is diabetic. Trifecta is infected with feline immunodeficiency virus (FIV). Trifecta is infected with feline leukemia virus (FeLV).
Trifecta is a null set, an irrational number, and a fraction of a whole, healthy cat.
Trifecta has heard it all. Trifecta’s eyes are still smiling.
Trifecta smiles when he goes to Tractor Supply Company, where 4-H children and flannel grandpops squeeze him like a security blanket. Trifecta smiles on Whisker Wednesdays, when women of dignity take a break from fighting breast cancer to borrow a grey cat’s peace. Trifecta smiles when shoulders slump into his suite, because he knows he can fix that.
Trifecta smiles when Abacus persists in existing, because Abacus is proof that life is hilarious.
Trifecta smiles, because Trifecta cannot lose.
The grabby fates may have taken the powers of his pancreas. Retroviruses may rampage like orangutans up and down his DNA. Sometimes, his blood glucose climbs the Empire State Building. Sometimes, he wishes all the laps would stop leaving. There are hours and days when Trifecta probably does not feel well at all.
Trifecta is a veteran of three chronic illnesses. There must be times when Trifecta’s tired body, an autoimmune obstacle course every day of his life, feels hollow.
Empty.
So Trifecta gives.
Trifecta laughs.
It does not compute, by the standards of sophomore calculus. It is a gamble to give even when your tank is full. But it is preposterous to give when you are a naked guy dressed in diagnoses.
Anyone can see that Trifecta’s cape is threadbare. Any financial planner would bar the door of Quinn’s Corner to keep him from spending what he does not have, on people who cannot repay him.
He is a cat with three ravening diagnoses. If he tries to feed anyone else, Trifecta’s check will be returned for insufficient funds.
So he pays in his own currency.
He spends “Trifecta.”
Nobody goes hungry.
The laden cat’s cup overflows.
To the naked eye, the cat without luck has no margin of error, no degree of “extra” to expend on anyone but himself. But at Tabby’s Place, the cat with all the conditions places no condition on giving.
Trifecta is always full, because he is always pouring himself out. Trifecta has a doctoral degree in the math that matters.
Trifecta is a veteran. Trifecta has tenure.
Trifecta’s office hours are “always,” and there’s only one equation on his chalkboard: nothing plus love equals everything.