Target has Missoni and Jason Wu.

H&M has Versace and Marni.

But only Tabby’s Place has Webster.

We already knew that Webby was a cosmopolitan, debonair, suave and urbane gentleman.

We knew that he not only

(a) is the man with the master plan
but also that he
(b) has the skills that pay the bills.

We knew that he was the handsomest, lovingest, mooshiest and best cat of noble birth. We knew that he was matchless and flawless and altogether perfect from tip to tail. We knew that he never, ever, ever bites ravages savages anybody, except for those times when he does.

But what we didn’t realize, until yesterday – oh we of little brain! – was that Webster is a fashion revolutionary.

It’s a cryin’ shame that cat fashion doesn’t get the attention it should. Tell me, I beseech you: where is the Carrie Bradshaw of haute feline couture? Whither the Vivienne Westwood or Yves Saint-Laurent for the cat about town?

Now we know.

Yesterday we received a rather unexpected shipment of garments. Too small for a human bean or even a hobbit, these were obviously made for felines. Or wombats. They came with minimal instructions, but we gathered that they were a new invention based on a successful canine model. Apparently similar shirts (and I use the term loosely) had been effective in helping their canine wearers to calm down in times of stress (thunderstorms, vet visits, episodes of Two And A Half Men). Now, the designers wanted to know if the same could work for smaller creatures.

Being fresh out of wombats at Tabby’s Place, we opted to try them on one of our more fashion-forward felines. I nominated Jackie: the girl is bodacious, bootylicious and knows it (and if you don’t believe me, just wait for #1 in this countdown). Besides…if we wanted to know if these things work, we may as well try ’em out on a severe stress case, right? I was gently reminded that, even if we stitched 57 of the shirts together, we would not have enough material to fully engird Jackie’s incredible heft. (I was not-so-gently reminded that, if I thought Jackie should wear a shirt, I would need to attempt that death-defying feat myself. Picture stuffing a velociraptor into a tissue box, and you have the general idea.)

A certain staff member who shall remain anonymous, whose name may or may not rhyme with Fanielle, nominated Webster to be the first fashionista (fashionisto?). I balked. I blithered. I begged. I said something highly coherent, to the effect of, nononononononononooooooo! I tried to spare him. I felt like a good mother watching my child get kidnapped and forced onto Toddlers and Tiaras.

I was a fool.

Fanielle prevailed, and before I could say “work it!”, Webster was wearing his shirt…and loving it.

He rolled. He lolled. He lay on his back and made muffins in the air. He looked good and he knew it. There was no disputing it: Webster loved wearing his garment of glory.

Well, he did. Until he didn’t. When he finally decided it was time to strut his literal stuff, Webster made an uncomfortable discovery: it’s hard to work it in a swaddly grey cat-shirt. The velcro skritched. The shirt constricted. Webby flopped back down and sighed – actually sighed. Fanielle insisted we continue to observe, “in the name of science.” I couldn’t bear it, and busted our boy free.

The fashion show was over. And, as you can see, Webby has recovered quite nicely.

Chickadee, on the other hand, is still a bit traumatized from the entire experience. Behold the look on her face upon seeing Webster in his shirt.

Clearly she never saw a feline specimen so spectacular.

For her part, Chickie decided that she wasn’t going to wear a shirt (our attempts were rebuffed, to put it gently). The shirt, however, was happy to wear her, as she sat upon it contently for quite some time.

I guess there are truly no rules in fashion. Or maybe just one: Webster is always, always, always in style.

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