If you have never spontaneously exclaimed, “I’m as slaphappy as a shamrock!”, my condolences.
This is incontrovertible proof that you have never spent time with Hibou.
Not to boast, but we’re feeling as festive as a forty-leaf clover at Tabby’s Place. Someone far greater than a leprechaun is here.
He is as orange as the beards above the bagpipes in the St. Patty’s Day Parade. His name is French for “owl with jaunty ear tufts.” He is the preeminent wand-toy wizard of central New Jersey.
But this lucky charm is of Lebanese extraction, and he’s all oats, no marshmallows.
You may recall that Tabby’s Place, being the pot of gold at the end of “hopeless situations,” takes cats from all over the world. We work particularly closely with Animals Lebanon, a league of angels who send us to our knees in awe. They also send us friends who truer than Too‐Ra‐Loo‐Ra‐Loo‐Ral.
Ninety-five percent of Tabby’s Place cats come from the United States, but the final far-flung five have a way of punching above their weight.
Or slapping, as the carrot-topped case may be.
There were no shamrocks in Hibou’s Beirut, and nary a rainbow stretching a smile across the sky. The only gold lining the streets was a team of rescuers. They had eyes for a ragged redhead with infected peepers and an injured leg. They had compassion for a troubled tuft of orange fluff.
When mercy’s eyes are smiling, ’tis like a morn in spring.
In the lilt of rescue’s laughter, you can hear the angels sing.
And so it was that one rumpled Lebanese cat with a French name and an American destiny, became the marshal of our St. Patrick’s Day parade.
Hibou does not need perfect sight to confirm that he is in clover. His eyes are unique little isles, but they shine at the first sign of fleece on a stick. Every jingle ball is better than a marching band, and the days are green with the clover of camaraderie.
Life may be sweet as soda bread today, but Hibou remembers picking out the hard raisins. He was cautious in his early days in County Hunterdon. As wise as his namesake, Hibou kept his tufts tucked in.
As barmy as Irish stew, he slapped his luck until he knew it would stick.
In the precise zoological terminology of our trained staff, Hibou “slapped the crap” out of his tender caregivers.
Despite being “way too cute to be so slappy,” our orange owl smacked and whacked and took a crack at pressing his luck and our buttons.
Hibou asked for a hibachi. He wrote open letters to Jonathan protesting our systematic failures to produce corned beef. He hit every gentle hand, then looked in our eyes to see what would happen. Was this the end? Would love wilt like a green leaf plucked?
He did not yet know.
He hit our hands, but he had hit the jackpot.
Luck is one thing. Love is the whole thing. And you cannot lose the latter.
You can only let your laughing eyes gleam like emeralds. This is the second innocence of leprechauns and kittens, the second sight of saints and angels.
Hibou has landed safely at Tabby’s Place, where love will hoot your name each green morning.
Hibou has chased the rumors to the truth: unconditional exists.
Hibou has followed the rainbow to the parade we take turns marching for each other.
Feeling slaphappy yet?
Happy St. Patrick’s Day, kittens.