Three strikes

Three strikes

The dimwit world does not understand genius.

The superficial society does not understand accomplishments.

Trifecta understands.

Trifecta understands you in a multitude of ways. Trifecta understands you all the way to the molecular level. Trifecta will confirm this by rubbing his forehead against yours with the force of twelve neutron stars.

But like the grandest sages of all the ages, Trifecta only understands you because he has first endeavored the intimidating odyssey of understanding himself.

He understands that his cloudy eye resembles Earth from space, and thunderheads look like turkey tetrazzini if you squint.

He understands that everyone is infected with something. Some of us can’t stop slipping the adjective “heckin'” into polite conversation. Some of us have stage-4 crushes on Viggo Mortensen. Some of us are chemically incapable of resisting burritos. Some of us have feline immunodeficiency virus, feline leukemia virus, and/or both.

Trifecta understands that no one can do everything. Durin cannot manufacture ravioli. (Not for lack of trying.) I cannot fold a fitted sheet. (Largely for lack of trying.) Grecca cannot cease taunting the sound barrier with her operatic screams. (Entirely for lack of trying.) Trifecta’s pancreas cannot produce insulin.

But before and after lesser wisps of wisdom, Trifecta understands what it means to be accomplished.

Trifecta understands himself to be a pewter paragon of accomplishment.

It’s right there in his name. He has, to consult the Oxford dictionary, enjoyed “a run of three wins or grand events.”

He has slid into home with FIV, FeLV, and diabetes.

This is the place where stooges stop short and rage at our sage. “Grand events”? Are these not the disasters that slay dreams, the diagnoses that rub your nose in the dust of death?

Sages smooch stooges on their furrowed brows. “Only if we’re talking gold dust and death metal, cupcake.” (This is a direct quote from Trifecta Rosenberg, whose enthusiasm for death metal is rivaled only by his delicate appreciation of Vivaldi, Brahms, and Mariah Carey.)

Trifecta knows what he has done. He has won. He has peeked down at the tear-stained cards in his hands, upped the ante, and convinced the entire casino he has a straight flush. He has proceeded to flush premature obituaries down the toilet, together with plant-based cheese and Twitter.

More to the point, he has proceeded, full stop. He has acquired the diseases, he has dodged the dooms (plural), and he has simply proceeded.

He has proceeded to roll like heaven’s heaviest meatball from his cat tower, lacquering your lap with silver hairs of priceless value. (I hereby summon you to Tabby’s Place to personally undergo this process of Trifection. I don’t care if you live in Oklahoma or Oman, you must have this peak experience. Personally, I must have it at least twice a week to remain healthy.)

He has proceeded to prance about Suite F’s solarium, Little Lord Fauntleroy in chicken legs and a bulbous belly that would benefit from turkey legs.

He has proceeded to befriend Durin and Tortellini and the sun and the tooting traffic and the totality of humanity at Tabby’s Place (which he earnestly hopes includes you).

He has proceeded to live, outlasting “issues” that would outrage the average stooge.

By elementary calculations, Trifecta should not be here. Diabetes is the most expensive ailment under feline heaven. FIV doesn’t cause the fear it once did, but throw on a garnish of FeLV, and doors start closing as though a cat is the boogeyman.

But Trifecta excels in advanced calculus (and also thinks the word “boogeyman” is both exquisite and an ideal name for a death metal Vivaldi tribute band). Trifecta used his knowledge of physics to slide into a home that runs its own numbers.

When home is Tabby’s Place, hopeless + hopeless + hopeless = hero status.

When home is Tabby’s Place, strike one + strike two + strike three = victory.

When home is Tabby’s Place, bad card + worse card + worst card = jackpot.

The cat least likely to succeed rides the shoulders of the cheering crowd.

The cat most used to closed doors opens the storybook and finds out it’s his biography.


Now you understand.

Leave a Reply