If you’ve not yet done your holiday shopping, allow me to extend my condolences. The malls this week will be only slightly less tragic and messy than The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, without the benefit of Gordon Lightfoot.
But where there are Tabby’s Place cats, there’s hope.
Apparently the country’s in the very best of hands. They tell me that our debt problems are in the care of a supercommittee.
As best I can tell, any committee worthy of being called super must be made up of cats.
I’ve always liked the expression “he swears like a longshoreman.”
My liking hasn’t been tempered by the fact that I rarely swear and have never met any longshoremen. Or at least, I didn’t until Burdock came along.
Cats seem naturally unskeptical. Armed with industrial-strength amounts of awesome, they’re happy to believe each morning that the world is good and hope is real.
But when you’re from the Show Me state, you might need a pinch of proof before you give your whole heart.
As readers of Felis Catus well know, the Peachable One is a very dignified cat.
Accordingly, this is a very dignified post.
Or, um, not. Dreaming of sugarplums much, Peachy?
As the cats’ humble servant, it is my solemn duty to inform you of something essential.
You want to be at Tabby’s Place tomorrow.
(8)
(29)
(454)
