Ages and rages of kings.
Cats of uncommon character.
Cats who are uncommon “characters.”
Clearly there’s something about Caesars that makes the world take notice.
Caesar has commanded our loyalty at Tabby’s Place since circa September. When most of America’s little emperors and empresses were going back to school, our Caesar was getting back to basics:
Who can you trust?
What is the meaning of honor?
Shouldst one beware the ides of September?
Given up by his kinsfolk, Caesar gave up not a drop of his valor. He would rather be first in a village than second at Rome, and so he came, saw, and thoroughly conquered the village of Tabby’s Place.
He smote us to the far reaches of smittenness. He shot straight through every human heart with arrows of affection. He was emperor, top cat, character and captain and Caesar of caesars.
Et tu, former owners?
As befits an emperor of his glory, Caesar has chosen his chief city well. “Let me have men about me that are fat,” he declared, avoiding the lean and hungry types of Suite B for the globular gang in Suite C.
Caesar himself, of course, has eaten enough croutons to roundly earn his place on those plump plains. But never mind; it’s what he’d choose regardless.
Funny thing, though, about choice. Even when you’re the grandest man in all the land, sometimes your fate chooses you. Were it up to us mere humans, Caesar would be lavished with all the laurels and fancy-looking crowns west of Rome, not to mention a forever home of epic proportions.
But somehow, beyond all our understanding, Caesar has gone un-chosen.
Unnoticed by those who fill out adoption applications.
Constant as the northern star, Caesar is content with these choices beyond his reach. Mischief is always afoot in Suite C, and that’s good enough for our mirthful conqueror. So he waits, confident that the fault lies not in his stars, nor in his future adopters. He’s OK if you mix him up with Dudley. He’s OK if dinner is belated. He’s OK if ides and tides pass on with no application submitted in his name, so long as he can lead captives in his train, petting him perpetually.
His time will come.
Until then, our time is lavished in laurels and love.
In the (slightly amended) words of a far greater Caesar chronicler than I:
“His life was gentle; and the elements
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, THIS WAS A CAT!”