His natural spices are strictly sweet.

No one would call him salty.

Yet the diagnosis was clear: we had an uncured Salami on our hands.

Dressed in grey velveteen, Salami is no stranger to mystery. His name refuses to explain itself. Some cats are named for their appearance. See the billowy Puff, or Tabby’s Place’s answer to Tom Selleck, Mr. Mustache.

We can only hope this is not the case with Salami. If you should encounter lunch meat the color of asphalt, I would recommend a different delicatessen.

Salami’s personality is anything but pungent. From his apple-pie eyes, to soft ears that really listen, the cat lacks even one slice of sly or snarky. He is as earnest as a potato roll from your grandmother’s kitchen. He is not here to sizzle, or to set the world on fire.

He is here to do something far more daring. He is here to take full bites of life.

Salami came from the same crowded colony as Hummus, Triscuit, and a fifty-cat cafeteria of questions. We named them in themes, from the ’90s grunge revival, to the physics lab, to the sandwich shop. If future historians study their genealogy, the record may show that Nirvana begat Hydrogen who begat Tapenade, and so on. But the details don’t matter. They are family.

And now, they are part of the Tabby’s Place family.

Salami has bewildered himself with his own bravery. From the fearful huddle of step-uncles and meemaws, Salami stepped out. He accepted our touch, with no guarantee that we were trustworthy. He accepted his name, with no guarantee of future hoagies.

He looked into the eyes of people wild enough to believe in mysteries thicker than mayonnaise.

Cats can sense what you believe, you know. They are thumbing the diner menu of our secrets every time they tilt their heads.

Salami knew the audacity of our convictions.

We believed that a nervous pewter cat with an upper respiratory virus deserved a name.

There is no stopwatch counting down to “time up” at Tabby’s Place.

And you dare not unravel just because you’re uncured.

Having confirmed this, Salami could spill a few secrets of his own.

There was no use hiding it. He loves people. One of his core beliefs is the conviction that belly rubs, supplemented with armpit skritches, could end all wars.

He also espouses the theory of infinite hurrahs. This spares him from worrying about “the last hurrah.”

Back in the colony, any good day could have been “the last hurrah.” Yet another hurrah always came. The sun came back to warm his ribs. Tapenade, Nirvana, and the whole family formed a fifty-cat sandbag against sadness, tails and whiskers woven in one great love knot.

In this life, fear might not be curable, but it is treatable.

An ailing cat can receive a name even before he gives his heart.

And, just when hope hobbles below the horizon, the hurrahs start pouring like a freshwater spring.

But first, things might get salty.

No sooner had Salami surrendered to love, than it looked like he might lose a different battle entirely. The upper respiratory infection was not an upper respiratory infection. Salami had feline infectious peritonitis, also known as “FIP,” “a certain and terrible death sentence,” or its most common name, “no, no, no, no, no, anything but that!”

This is the disease behind the most horrible heists in feline history. It preys upon the young. It does not care if your life has just turned sweet. It takes, and it takes, and it leaves you with an empty carrier and a silent jingle ball.

Or rather, it did.

For in 2024, the hurrahs had their victory.

FIP is not just treatable.

FIP is curable.

Salami will get to stay for the duration of the feast.

In practical terms, this means Salami got seated at the rowdy table we call the Community Room. As Tabby’s Place suites go, this is the sweetest, with cats who love cats and humans who wait in line to coddle them.

In addition to antivirals, FIP treatment dictates as much peace as possible. Salami was spared the bungee-jumping baloney-heads in, say, Suite E. Until he completed the protocol, our uncured Salami was breaded in an abundance of caution.

But now, we are dealing with a cured Salami.

More precisely, we are dealing with a dance party, because Salami and Hummus have been adopted, together, by spectacular staff member Claudia.

He’s left us in sweet safekeeping. His colony kin will take good care of all of us who are treatable, but not curable. (That should cover everyone.)

The cats who never bought into fear are giving head-bonks for free.

The cats who hid under bushes hide extra hurrahs under their armpits, in case they see you feeling blue.

Pull up to the table.

There’s room for all the oddballs and the uncured.

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