Although we are more eminent than Princeton, with a higher number of salmon scholars than Swarthmore, Tabby’s Place does not require letters of recommendation.
But if we did, Verne‘s would outshine them all.
It’s a good thing Tabby’s Place was Verne’s first choice school, because this precocious tortie would be accepted everywhere.
I’m not referring to her brilliance, although it stuns the comets. Verne could explain the density of a neutron star. Verne could deliver a dissertation on the underappreciated humor of Kahlil Gibran and the underrated poetry of Bad Bunny.
Verne has invented six languages and ten pizza toppings.
I’m not referring to her emotional intelligence, although she has an honorary PsyD. from the University of Amsterdam. Verne introduced herself to Suite B by asking all the cats about themselves.
This was not something she learned on a podcast. Verne is genuinely interested in others. She wants to know Brian‘s preferred angle for head-bonking, and she will keep trying until she gets it right. She wants to know Jupiter‘s favorite mollusk. She wants to know which volunteer is hiding something sad.
She has a commanding knowledge of how to make anyone less sad.
I’m not referring to the scrunched knot that sits where most cats have a right ear. Injury or infection may explain the origami at Verne’s crown, but she wears it like a tiara. Her topknot is a velvet bow on the best gift you ever received. Her top priority is ensuring that everyone receives the gift of Verne.
I’m not even referring to Verne’s extracurricular activities, although they are panoramic. She is a Renaissance cat, excelling in track and field as well as Youth in Government. She runs as though she may run out of time before she gets to love the whole world. She leads as though she believes peace is still possible.
Never underestimate the head-bonks of a genius.
But I am referring to Verne’s reference letter.
When applying for academic admission, it helps to have an alum on your side. An alum knows who you were before you sought acceptance. An alum knows the academy from the inside, and he knows it is sadder for lack of you. Such a magical creature has one foot in “before” and one in “after.”
Or two feet each, as the case may be.
Verne has a letter of recommendation from Vinnie.
It is mostly exclamation points dotted in daisies. There is a generous use of the academic term “OH MY GOODNESS!!!!!!” There are several hand-drawn cartoons of Verne, with hearts for eyes.
Verne came from Vinnie’s feral colony, and the letter nearly writes itself.
Once you have Vinnie’s approval, success in any endeavor is guaranteed (e.g. lifetime supply of forehead kisses, admission to Cornell, promotion to CEO of Arby’s, casting as the Childlike Empress in a remake of The Never-Ending Story, etc.).
So if Verne would be welcomed everywhere from Hogwarts to Harvard, how did she end up at Tabby’s Place?
Even a genius, with a garlic knot for an ear, can end up in a hopeless situation.
Verne’s outdoor home was being sold. All the other cats had a place to go, but the tortie with the big fig eyes had nowhere to transfer her credits.
To make matters worse, she’d developed infections in multiple toenails. Sometimes this happens, when you are a beautiful dancer who taps as fast as you can to cheer up the entire world.
Sometimes, the world has to end for freshman year to begin.
If Verne wasn’t forced to graduate from the life she knew, she would never get to matriculate in the life she loves.
Verne turned her tassel, and now she is turning Tabby’s Place into her personal Academy of Adoration. Life is one lush experiment in raising the sum total of love. Verne measures love in quantities no smaller than infinity.
I would not bet against her.
Eat your heart out, Dartmouth. Regrets, Oxford. Verne is Tabby’s Place, Class of 2024.
PS: If you caught the reference in the subject line, I think we just became best friends.