Every cat was born to rule.
The most raggedy stray, with fur sticking up like a sea urchin, is a duchess.
The toothless tabby whose body type is “matzo ball” is a duke of dignity.
Even our reigning imp Berry is a king, though he was under the impression there would be more burgers involved.
But when it comes to royalty, long-reigning Princess is the veteran.
It was 2015 when Princess first ascended the throne of our hearts. Clearly, all the fuss around Queen Elizabeth’s Diamond Jubilee was only a warmup for the coronation of this cat.
Princess was … glorious.
Fierce dignity on four legs, she floated in a carriage of fluff. Her fur was as long as a velvet robe, but her pomp was more “punk rock” than “plush.” We were in the presence of grandeur, splendor, and the best hair since Tina Turner.
But no castle from Windsor to Camelot could contain her.
Princess had no interest in waving from a balcony or preening over a ballroom. Her realm was reality itself. Her crown was the clouds, and her vassals were the trees.
Besides, she had all the chambermaids and footmen she could ever need: she was part of Tabby’s Place’s Trap-Neuter-Return (TNR) program.
When you are part of our feral flotilla, you are the heart of our royal family.
Just like the treat-snarfing barons and drowsy emperors in our laps, TNR cats are true Tabby’s Place cats. They may not let us crown them in nose-rubs. They may surround themselves with a moat of claws and clauses (e.g., “the death penalty shall apply to treason on the high seas, turkey shortages, and/or kissing my forehead”).
But they are ours, and they will have everything they need, even if they pretend they don’t need us.
For a decade, Princess presided over her colony, delighting in the cuisine and kindness of her loyal lieges. Our volunteers were steadfast, dressing Princess in patience, presence, and the perseverance of poultry.
Love made no demands, and Princess made few commands. She trusted her people-friends. When you’re enthroned in unconditional acceptance, every day is a jubilee.
But days gather into years, and years storm the castle of calm.
Queen Elizabeth was not the only royal reaching milestone birthdays. Princess was at least fifteen, and outdoor life was taking its toll.
Her majestic fur grew matted, falling out in patches. She developed a painful eye ulcer. Her medical issues began to feud more bitterly than the Yorks and Lancasters.
It was time to bring our rose’s rambling reign under our roof.
Thanks to devoted caregiver Lauren, Princess knew the etiquette of love. She was nervous, but gracious, when her drop-trap chariot opened into a peculiar palace. First with trembling, then with wide eyes, she extended the scepter of trust.
Yes, she would grant us an audience with Her Majesty. She asked only that we be kind, and slow, and perhaps sing her a few songs by Queen and Prince.
(It is a fact that one hundred percent of cats like Queen and Prince. This is appropriate, since one hundred percent of cats are the champions, one hundred percent of cats will rock you, a solid twenty percent of cats are fat bottomed girls, and one hundred percent of cats get emotional when they hear “Purple Rain,” but don’t tell them I told you that.)
Still, when Princess’ diagnoses turned out to be many, we wondered. How would a lifelong feral handle all our handling, even if she did have the manners of a queen?
We needn’t have worried. Princess is a veteran of love.
She remained timid, for it is the duty of royalty to be oneself at all times. But, thanks to Lauren and the whole cotillion, Princess knew friendship when she saw it.
She allowed our team to treat her liver and kidney disease, and even to apply her eye ointment (an indignity many “friendly” cats consider a capital offense as grievous as bringing lunch at 1:08pm). She permitted gentle grooming.
It seemed to be a smooth transition of power. As a bonus, we were veterans of treating Princess’ main medical issue, hyperthyroidism. This common condition is virtually a rite of passage for cats of a certain age.
But Princess was no commoner.
Fortunately, she had the most valiant veteran veterinarian in all the realms. Dr. C has been with Tabby’s Place since the Burger King was just a little meatball. Dr. C has treated and treasured over 5,000 cats.
And, most importantly, Dr. C has attended to each one as though they were the most important cat who ever ruled the world.
(Which is, of course, correct.)
So, when Princess developed a rare, life-threatening reaction to her thyroid medication, Dr. C caught it quickly. Princess did not brandish her symptoms across tapestries or summon the coronets to declare her distress. The signs of trouble were subtle.
In another castle, a semi-feral senior’s slow fade might go undetected.
But Princess is not the only veteran of love around here.
Before it was too late, Dr. C realized what was happening. Most cats do just fine on thyroid medication. But love is never general, always specific. Princess would need … well, the princess treatment. The only way to save her was with a radioactive iodine therapy.
It was costly.
It was complicated, involving meticulous disposal of nuclear waste.
(I swear I am not making this up. If done correctly, nobody is in any danger. But, yes: for three weeks, Tabby’s Place was a nuclear power.)
It was completely curative.
It was our great delight.
And this Veteran’s Day, we salute the long-reigning monarch who is here for peacetime.
Long live the Princess!