What is it, kittens, that gets you out of bed?
Do you have that fire in the belly that no tribulation can shake?
Do you stretch towards the sunshine with invincible hope?
Do you have your alarm clock set to play Lizzo at 6:45 am without fail?
Is raspberry truffle coffee your morning soulmate?
Whatever it is, here you are, on your feet or at least your tuckus, awake or at least astir, doing what needs to be done or at least what you can.
Or, I suppose it’s entirely possible you are actually reading this from bed. And I’m here to tell you that’s actually, entirely okay.
Not that you should trust me on such matters. (Or matters regarding raspberry truffle coffee, which I am told by people who are wrong is “vile” and “disgusting.” But, as noted, they are incorrect.)
You should always trust cats, on the other hand.
Specifically, cats who have been given every reason to have no reason to get out of bed in the morning.
About a fortnight ago (let the record show that I think we should all start using the word “fortnight” often and accurately), a simple string of words hit the internet. The context was a Special Needs update for Tux. Like all of our sponsorable cats, Tux has his own personal scribe, who grovels at his toes for tellable tales each month, then relays them to Tux’s sponsors.
On this occasion, Tux’s tale-teller shared a sorry situation, a sad tale of deprivation and devastation and Community Room conflagrations. It seems Tabby’s Place had somehow acquired a spectacular cat bed, a perfect pink poof equal parts Koosh and Hostess Snoball. Being personally perfect, Tux saw fit to see himself into said bed. All good.
But then, other, equally perfect cats came to the same conclusion: Perfect bed = my perfect personal possession. Competition ensued. Venom. Viciousness. Vainglory.
No. Actually none of the above. (Except vainglory, which is always present where cats are present.) The tender, touching tragedy is this: Tux, being perfect, was all too willing to share his bed with every fellow perfect creature. And so this one rosy ball of bliss became the collective possession of all the Community Cats.
I suppose it’s easy to get out of bed in the morning when your bed is a dreamy co-op.
But Tux — and the other hundred cats clamoring for the smooshy snowball — needn’t have worried.
The reason: Tabby’s Place is enfolded in a community of humans whose main motivation to get up in the morning is to send all the love.
ALL OF IT, ALL, ALL, ALL, YES I AM YELLING.
And in this case, that meant sending all the beds.
Kittens, I am not making this up.
Since the time that Tux’s update hit the airwaves, we have received no fewer than 58,000 Hostess snowball beds. (OK, slight sliver of hyperbole. But only wafer-thin.)
We have snowballs in every color. (The raspberry truffle ones are the best, but they’re all scrumptious.)
We have snowballs for every personality.
We have snowballs in every nook and cranny of our kooky sanctuary, and each one is a sanctuary unto itself.
The hairy, humongous, happymaking snowballs are bouncing down the halls and into all the rooms, from Bucca (you’d better believe Bucca got a snowball; I am capable of wielding my powers from Rapunzel’s tower) to Dani to Tux, who started this whole thing, this glorious golden thing that shows no sign of slowing down.
You people are too much wonderful.
Don’t you dare ever change.