It was a typical afternoon at Tabby’s Place.
Cats were sleeping. Cats were playing. Cats were eating. Humans were talking about Dwight D. Eisenhower.
As I said, a typical afternoon.
I don’t remember how we human beans got to talking about our 34th president, but we agreed that we collectively liked Ike. Given that most of the assembled human beings were approximately -30 years old during Ike’s term, our liking was simple and nonpartisan. You’ve just gotta like a guy named Ike. (Or Spike. Or Mike. Or Webster. But I digress.)
Now, sometimes things happen at such amazing timing that you know you’re experiencing a holy moment, a meant-to-be marvel, a Deus ex machina feat of wonder when all the stars and saints and angels align for a transcendent purpose.
This wasn’t quite on that level…but it was pretty tootin’ awesome anyway.
No sooner had we finished our lunchtime discussion of Ike, than our newest Tabby’s Place resident arrived, right on schedule. He was nameless…for all of eight seconds. The brown tabby’s new, true name?
Of course. Ike.
But this isn’t an Ike to merely “like.” Not, that is, unless you “like” your Mom, or “like” being alive, or “like” Cupcake Wars. No, some passions are insulted by the wimpy word “like.” When it comes to this Ike, it’s real, rapturous love.
The first thing you notice about Ike is the fact that he’s really really brown – brown like good Ringoes soil, brown like a fudgesicle, brown like the color of tea. No ordinary brown tabby, Ike has unique brown eyes, a brown chin, and an overall earthy wildness about his look that is likeable in the extreme. His remarkable markings give Ike the look of a little wildcat, not entirely unlike this guy.
It won’t be long before you notice that there’s something else a little wild about Ike. He doesn’t exactly walk. He makes Molly and Edward look like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Ike’s our newest CH (cerebellar hypoplasia) baby, and his flippity-flopping has been compared to everything from a big, brown-furred fish to a Weeble. Still, he makes a circuit of the lobby each morning, and, although it ain’t easy, he uses his litter box more faithfully than a politician, uh…well, more faithfully than a politician does anything. Ike definitely moves in his own way. But truth be told, he doesn’t move a whole heck of a lot…physically, that is.
Your heart, on the other hand? He can move that without moving a muscle. And, better than any glad-handing, baby-kissing politician, Ike will get your vote just by being Ikeself. To meet him is to be mooshed by him, and to be mooshed by him is to lose your heart to the flippity-floppiest candidate you’ve ever cherished.
While it may not fit on a campaign button, the appropriate slogan would seem to be I Absolutely Adore Ike.
Although friend-collecting comes naturally to Ike, he’s not taking any chances. Our Weeble brownie is in it to win it, and he knows there’s no plummier campaign stop than the Tabby’s Place Lobby. Ike whiles away his days caucusing, and giving rousing speeches showing off his stripey, spotty belly in the sunshine, and giving and receiving loveys. Ike’s perpetual sunshine is all the more astonishing when you know the trouble he’s seen. Other candidates may claim to identify with the poor because their daddies worked in a mine, or their only shoes were made out of corn cobs, but Ike’s got the ultimate empathy. Not long after his arrival at Tabby’s Place, Ike showed signs of respiratory distress, and made the whirlwind tour to the emergency vet. Trying to account for both his wobbliness and his breathing woes, Dr. Fantastic and company warned us that Ike’s ailment could be something Dire And Dastardly…maybe even the deadly FIP.
Fast forward a week, and we are all breaking out the party hats and noisemakers: Ike “only” has pneumonia. (Well, had; as I write this, he’s 99% of his way through a full recovery.) Still, that’s some scary stuff, and you wouldn’t blame a boy for bowing out of the race for such a setback.
But not Ike. He’s only just begun lobbying for love, and we all know where this campaign will end…1600 Pennsylvania Avenue a forever home.
Hail to the Chief!
Stay tuned: later this week, you’ll meet Ike’s lobby running mate – er, make that wobbling mate – the unsinkable Gabriella.