In ancient Greece, Cassandra had the gift of prophecy, but the curse that no one would believe her.
In modern-day New Jersey, Cassandra has the gift of grief, and the promise that everyone will believe her.
“The gift of grief”? Have I gone mad, or perhaps eaten some questionable spanakopita?
After all, this is Tabby’s Place. We throw olives at the face of gloom. The worst tragedy we will tolerate is the 24-hour diner deciding to close at 11pm.
But before you hurl me down the turnpike like a thunderbolt, hear me out.
Cassandra has the gift of grief, because Cassandra has received love.
Love first spoke when the day was new. Cassandra was small enough to wrap in a grape leaf. But not far from Athens, Georgia, good people heard her voice.
Whether it is meowed in Greek, English, or “New Jersey,” every kitten’s cries translate the same: “I matter!” And the rescuers believed Cassandra.
They wrapped Cassandra in blankets and bundled her up for an odyssey. They’d heard a legend of a purring Parthenon, where every cat gets her own chorus.
Cassandra came north to Tabby’s Place, and the fun began.
Some think “fun” is all grape-stomping and pageantry, festivals and feta cheese. But, as every cat and prophet knows, “fun” is love and safety. And also feta cheese.
In the adoring Acropolis of Tabby’s Place, Cassandra’s days were more fun than the word “falafel.” (Say it. Say “falafel.” Say it repeatedly. Say it in funny voices. Now you are laughing. You’re welcome.)
When she was anxious, she was adored. When the world inside got loud, soft voices cooed her name. When she felt uncertain, her place in this family remained secure. Every time she used her voice, we believed her.
We believed her when she said it was the time for snuggles, and we believed her when she said it was NOT THE TIME FOR SNUGGLES.
We believed her when she asked for attention, and we believed her when she asked for space.
We believed Cassandra, and we believed in Cassandra, and unconditional love was anything but “unbelievable.”
We believed Cassandra found her forever home in 2018.
For seven years, she knew the good, true love of one person. Their grapevines entwined, and the roots ran deep. Cassandra told her adopter that she loved her, and her adopter believed her.
But the greatest stories are seldom simple, and “goodbye” does not mean love was a myth.
By no fault of anyone’s, Cassandra came back to Tabby’s Place in 2025. She exploded with aggression that would make Ares blush.
The gift of grief comes in many wrappings, and anger is its sharpest ribbon. Far from home, Cassandra felt as small as a poppyseed. She spoke in swats and snarls, wondering if we could translate her sadness.
We believed her.
We believed she spat fire because she knew how warm the world could be. We believed she was a good cat, worthy of patience, presence, and gyros, or at least the gentle gyrations of volunteers wriggling on the floor to blink in her eyes. (Cassandra claimed that Dr. C prescribed gyros. We did not believe her.)
We believed she wanted nothing more than to love again, even if she had to fill the Mediterranean with tears for us to sail across.
We believed Cassandra. And when love believes you, you can believe in love.
In ancient Greece, Cassandra could foretell the future, and the news was too bad to believe.
But in modern-day New Jersey, Cassandra can foretell the future, and the news is too good to ignore.
A day is coming when love will gather up the small and the sorrowful.
Tabby’s Place is a kind of Trojan horse, smuggling mercy into the world in plain sight.
If “returned” cats can be reborn in middle age, there is hope for us all.
If grief and anger can speak without fear, love will be waiting on the far side of the story.
This may look like a tired and cynical world, but Cassandra says it is just brokenhearted.
Cassandra says love is no myth.
We believe her.