Meet Sage & Tripp.
Two cats run this place. One came for three weeks and never left. One was already asleep by the window when we opened. Their methods have nothing in common. The catnip is better for it.
Sage.
In her own words —
I came over from England with a trunk, a thesis no university will acknowledge, and every intention of staying three weeks. That was some years ago. Portland does this to a person — you arrive for a conference and you stay because the coffee is taken seriously and no one asks you to explain yourself.
I found catnip here. Not the plant; I knew the plant. The culture of it. A city that ferments its own hot sauce, ages its own cheese, and will argue with you about water temperature was the only place precise enough to do this properly. I formulate every blend. I approve every batch. The notes on the jar are mine, and I do not write them generously.
I keep a tweed blazer for the rain and reading glasses I don't strictly need. I compost with a rigor that alarms the neighbors. If the Buzz Meter says five out of five, it's because I sat with it and agreed. I don't agree easily.
"Your cat will not understand the terpene profile. Her instincts will."
Tripp.
More or less —
I didn't come from anywhere exactly. I was around. Coast for a while, then the Gorge, then one morning I was here in the sun by the front window and Sage was standing over me asking whose cat I was. Took her a few months to give up. Took me a few months to notice I had a job.
I do quality control, which means I try everything. Somebody's gotta, and I've got the schedule for it. Sage can name the Latin family of every plant in the building. I can't. But I can tell you what Couch Lock feels like at four in the afternoon when the rain's been going since Tuesday and there's nowhere you have to be. That's a different kind of knowing.
Flannel most days. Beanie when it's damp, which is most days. I know every warm patch of floor in this place and most of the dry benches in Forest Park. I don't hurry. The city doesn't really ask you to.
"You open the jar and the cat's just gone. Different plane. I've been there. I get it."
Opposites who agree on one thing.
Sage runs on rigor. Tripp runs on instinct and a nap schedule. She finds his methods unscientific and can't argue with his results. He finds her precision unnecessary and trusts her completely. Neither will say so out loud.
What they agree on is the place. Every house we build — the lodge, the chalet, the tunnel under the river — is the two of them arguing about a corner of this city until it's right. Sage wants it accurate. Tripp wants it comfortable. You get both, every month.
Not sure which blend is right for your cat?
Browse the menu. Sage has approved every one. Tripp has personally tested them all.
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