What do you do when you throw a party, but no one wants to dance?
Well, you bring everyone to the neighbors’ house, of course.
And what about the small inconvenience of the neighbors, on their couch in their footie pajamas watching Love Island?
Easy. You just tell them they can move into your house.
Or better yet, tell them they can move into the other neighbors’ house, and the other neighbors can move into the other other neighbors’ house, and by the way, do they have any string cheese?
What could possibly go wrong?
This is precisely what our cats are asking.
We have just completed an audacious, outrageous rearrangement of Tabby’s Place’s neighborhoods. The cats of Suite A are in Suite J, which is now on a hypoallergenic diet.
The cats from the colonies are in the Feral Room, except the cats who are in Suite A. No, not those cats in Suite A. Those cats are now in Suite J, except for the ones who aren’t, because other suites suited them better.
And then there is Steven, who is in the Medical Suite, because at fifteen he should not have to play Gator‘s favorite game, “This Zip Code Is Only Large Enough For One Enormous Cat The Color Of Circus Peanuts.”
If you smell something burning, that is all of our neurons.
But, like everything at Tabby’s Place, this act of Twister was done in the best interest of the cats: all the cats, but especially some of the cats.
This is a love thing.
If love is love, it leans in closest to the ones who speak softly. If love is love, it saves its largest feats for the littlest. If love is love, it foregrounds the fearful and works hardest for the weak.
And since Tabby’s Place is love, we are here for The Nervous.
The Nervous came to us from two large, sickly colonies. While many have been adopted or nestled among our rescue partners, the worried faces pictured here are all here. We are thrilled that they are here. They are still forgiving us for the fact that they are here.
Many of our partygoers have never been socialized to human contact. We tried to tell them that Tabby’s Place is as fun as Studio 54, minus the debauchery and tax evasion, but they’re skeptical.
So we have established Suite A and the Feral Room as Socialization Land. The lines are much shorter than Disney Land, and there are no mice dressed as people.
But there are people dressed as love. And, cat by cat, we are going to convince them all that it’s no costume. I will be introducing you to these lovable legends in the days and weeks to come.
But if this all sounds very noble, you have not been talking to Maurice. In order to accommodate the anxious arrivals, Maurice had to move down the street. If you hear the sound of a thousand “sacre bleus“, that is one exasperated tabby attempting to find Paris in Suite J. (Everyone knows Paris is in Suite A. That’s why they spell it pAris.)
But Suite J is not Paris. Suite J is an orange jewel box designed for the sole purpose of delighting cats. Suite J has window seats as wide as the Seine, and cubbies that would humble Chartres.
Suite J also has a gargoyle too profane for Notre Dame.
Suite J has Gator.
Sacre bleu.
When you have lived your whole life certain that Earth has no ego like yours, it is terrifying to meet your match. In Gator, Maurice finds his Californian counterpart. (Friendly reminder: do not tell either Gator or Maurice that we are in New Jersey.)
If Maurice is Alain Delon, Gator is Matthew McConaughey. (Actually, whatever the circumstances, Gator is Matthew McConaughey.) If Maurice is boeuf bourguignon, Gator is an In n’ Out Burger.
If Maurice isn’t careful, Gator is going to kick his derriere.
So Maurice is assembling amis where once he had only acquaintances. He is uniting with Uni, a cuddle pile of mutual protection. He is sharing his macarons and his space with Tom, so as to convince Gator that “Letting Maurice Live” is what all the cool kids are doing.
He is not concerned with what’s happening down the hall in Studio 54.
But we are. (We are also optimistic that Maurice and Gator will realize how much they have in common. I mean, they both snicker for ten minutes every time someone says the word “boeuf.” Surely they are soul freres.)
We are here for all the cats, even if we are a little confused where we put all the cats.
And all the cats are going to be alright, alright, alright.