Funny thing, this business of ownership.
These pink polka-dot socks on my feet are mine. The half-finished cup vat of green tea on my desk is mine. Your patience with my strange sense of humor is all yours (bless your heart). But in what sense - if any - is a cat really yours or mine? Do we - can we - ever own a living, feeling soul wrapped in purr and fur and awesomeness?
Harvey
How do you solve a problem like Harvey Harvest?
How do you catch an “orinch puff” and pin him down?
We’re bearing down on Election Day, and people are getting passionate about all sorts of things: tea parties, coffee klatsches, increased rights for giant mole rats, bans on vegan cheese.
But, even in these acrimonious times, I know we can all agree on one thing: no cat, and I mean no cat, is a bimbo. (Not even if she’s wearing a pink wig. Speaking of things we can all agree should be banned…)
Dr. Collins and Denise are brilliant, seasoned veterinary professionals.
So it’s only right that we should take their biweekly notes to the rest of us peons with the utmost seriousness.
It’s a little-known fact that Tabby’s Place is larger than it seems.
There are a lot of doors in this place, and they all lead somewhere.
Picture this one nestled into the New York Times personals:
Wanted: one dance partner. My stripes go all the way from the mambo to the meringue, but the waltz has my heart. I pick my friends like I pick my beds: very carefully. You will be one of the few to scale my wall. Purr preferred. Tail optional.
You are currently browsing the Felis Catus blog archives for October, 2010.
(8)
(29)
(486)
