As its own sovereign nation, the Republic of Tabby’s Place is at liberty to establish holidays.
There is St. Squeezemeat’s Day, in honor of the genius who first packed liquid poultry into a Go-Gurt tube.
There is Skritchmas, a solemn observance of chin rubs and forehead boops.
Every third Thursday, the cats thank their Maker for not making them wear pants.
But there is one holiday we must borrow from elsewhere: Bastille Day.
Although Tabby’s Place is unapologetically New Jersey (which explains why our cats have the day off for Bruce Springsteen’s birthday and the anniversary of the first traffic circle), we always seem to have at least one resident who is flamboyantly French.
Cecille, that magical macaron, was forever trying to teach us how to parler Français.
I was just starting to get the hang of it when she was adopted. I would galoot into her suite and sing Celine Dion songs, and if she was really lucky I would give an encore of the entire score of Les Miserables.
Utterly transfixed, Cecille would turn her back, retreat to a cat bed chateau shaped like a pineapple, and respond with “quelle moron,” which I am pretty sure means “you have the voice of an angel and I love you more than snails.”
Maurice, our cross-eyed célébrité, informed us that he was not, appearances notwithstanding, a cat. He was not some chouchou, a tiny cabbage. He was Le Grand Fromage, a dignitary with transcontinental rights over cheeses and souls.
Apparently, this is why his former owners surrendered him to a police department rather than an animal shelter when he urinated outside the litter box. (I swear I am not making this up.)
But just before the International Criminal Court could get involved, he came to Tabby’s Place, where we provide immunity, beef nuggets, and adoption. Sacre bleu.
But, out of all our Bastille Day celebrants, no francofeline has ever been quite so French as François.
Which is why he is reinventing the holiday for a new generation.
First, there is the matter of translation. Language is no barrier at Tabby’s Place. Cats conjugate everything we say into what they want to hear. Whatever they want to hear is what we meant, anyway.
So, when we say François has FIV, François does not hear “feline immunodeficiency virus.” François hears “French Imported Valor.”
When we say François has FeLV, he certainly does not hear “feline leukemia virus.” He knows we are referring to his inviolable right to French Eels, Liverwurst, & Velveeta.
That is, incidentally, the traditional meal of Bastille Day. It must just be running late. If you see the DoorDash guy with the Value Eel Meal, please point him in the direction of Suite F.
Then, there is the need for a motto to rouse the masses. France has “Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité” (Liberty, Equality, Fraternity), which is nice if you’re into that sort of thing.
François is cool with Fraternité, since Luke and Trifecta are his frat chats and cuddle chouchous.
You, too, can be François’ chouchou. Once he has known you five minutes, he will follow you around Quinn’s Corner like Pepe LePew with heart antennae and googly eyes. (Pardonnez moi. That’s les yeux googly.)
He wants you to stay for dejeuner, whether or not you brought the eels.
He wants you to be his tiny cabbage toujours.
He doesn’t exactly want you to be his equal.
Égalité amuses François. François was born with paws the size of souffles and an ego that ate Égalité. It is tres bien that Luke and Trifecta are the kind of garçons who don’t mind being called “my tiny cabbages.”
So, François will focus on Liberté.
This is where his knowledge of history comes in handy. Do you know what happened on Bastille Day? It certainly sounds grand, n’est-ce-pas? Surely, the downtrodden won an epic victory, or maybe a homeless cat received both a croque monsieur and a croque madame.
(As François will explain, these are actual gourmet sandwiches that literally translate into “mister crunchy” and “Mrs. crunchy,” because the French are dignified chouchous who could teach us barbarians a thing or deux about decorum.)
But … non.
Bastille Day commemorates seven dudes breaking out of a castle.*
That’s fewer people than the morning litter box crew at Tabby’s Place.
But, as François will tell you (while rolling like a buttered croissant in your lap), that is precisely what makes Bastille Day a very Tabby’s Place holiday.
Liberté is never about big numbers.
Liberté is about a single FeLV+ cat breaking free from a “hopeless situation.”
Liberté is about one cat at a time vaulting from unloved to unconditionally loved.
Liberté is about little cats and little people cabbages taking care of each other, until nobody has to be afraid anymore.
Liberté is also about one dude breaking out of Quinn’s Corner and galloping down the hallway, but only because there are more people to hug down there, and François is a cat of the people.
So … although that other Bastille Day celebrates the end of absolute monarchy, we do things a little differently at Tabby’s Place.
Oui!
Vive le Roi François!
*OK, it was a little more complicated than that. But this historical document has been peer-reviewed by François, Luke, and Trifecta, which means it is accurate enough.