My barrister friends have often said that, when it comes to law school, if you make it through torts, you can make it.
I assumed this famously difficult class on torts must be on the topic of torts, as in, wrongful acts leading to civil legal liability.
Now I know: it was on tortoiseshell cats.
Convoluted though crime may be, it’s no comparison for the complexities of torties.
This has been hammered home in a most colorful way this spring. After having our stock of torties depleted by adoptions, we’re once again in the throes of a game of torties. And, as you can always safely assume, the torties are winning.
There are torties all over Tabby’s Place, but they’ve made their command center in Suite C.
There’s a good reason for this. (Torties do nothing without purpose.) What’s the only thing better than a tortie? A superabundant tortie.
So, if you’re looking for tons of tortietude, you’ll head directly for the Weight Management Suite. Not that anyone’s capable of “managing” all that black-and-orange brilliance.
There’s already a very capable manager on the premises, and it’s none other than Virginia. Picture this full-fashioned Tabby’s Place veteran as our answer to the party bosses of the 19th century. Like Boss Tweed, Virginia is round and robust and ready to reject any usurpers.
Is it dinner time? Virginia will get fed first.
Is a honeysuckle breeze wafting through the solarium? Virginia will exit the suite this exact moment, and she will not do so through the tube like the simple folk — nay! She will burst out the big door like a big girl, through the hallway and out the exit used by kings and queens and humans.
Is something foul in Suite C? Virginia will barrel back inside like a meteor, and she will yell. SO MUCH OF THE YELLING. Verily.
There will be no costars or sidekicks in this one-woman show. But fear not; Boss Virginia is a benevolent
ruler tyrant. Just submit to the full weight of her authority, and congratulations: ye shall be permitted to live.
Virginia shares her domain with two more torties of size. Wild-eyed, Einstein-haired Deanna is willing to give ground to Virginia, if only because Deanna is busy talking to the little man in her eyebrow. (No one knows what thoughts run mad behind Deanna’s eyes. No one could handle the truth.)
But newbie Zencada is another tortie altogether.
Diabetic, divine, and dinosaur-sized, Zen is every bit Virginia’s equal. This gets complicated when you’re dealing with two cats certain they have NO EQUAL.
There’s yelling, oh yes. There’s posturing. There’s sumo-style pageantry and dinnertime devastation.
“I,” bellows Zencada, “am straight outta CAMDEN. I have D-IA-BEE-TUS. I am a FORMIDABLE WOMAN.”
Boss Virginia lets her bellow. Finally, she replies: “Yes, wench. But I weigh three pounds more than you.”
Checkmate. For now.
A few paces down the hall, pastel torties are living lives a bit quieter, but no less fabulous. If Virginia and Zencada are Mariah Carey and Nicki Minaj, and Deanna is Sia (she’s certainly gonna swing from the chandelieeeeeeeer), then Mona is Brandi Carlile, and Kima…well, Kima is Ellie Goulding, and she’s singing “Love Me Like You Do” to Sequoia…all…day…long.
When torties love, they love completely.
And under no circumstances does any human fail to fall before such greatness.
Not convinced? Consider Fiona, 14 years of fabulosity beating the ‘beetus in Adoption Room #3; or Dina, quietly luminous in Suite B; or Toya, our longest-time resident of righteousness.
Or just look at Chanel: equal parts orange, black, and irresistible.
And we’re not even venturing into the realm of torbies.
That’s another game for another time.
Accept surrender proudly, my friends.