Every cat was born to rule. The most raggedy stray, with fur sticking up like a sea urchin, is a duchess. The toothless tabby whose body type is “matzo ball” is a duke of dignity. Even our reigning imp Berry is a king, though he was under the impression there would be more burgers involved. […]
There was a cat in there somewhere, behind the gnashing teeth. We were told this tabby tempest was called Dora. Her people said there was nothing left to explore. She had forfeit her right to be adored. It was nice of us to take her, but we should beware: she was “fractious and strong.”
If you need help with quantum physics, Shakespearean sonnets, or folding a fitted sheet, you had best find someone brilliant. But if you’ve misplaced your astonishment, and you can’t find it anywhere, you need more than brilliance. You’re in luck. Tabby’s Place is the epicenter of Jilliance.
“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn’t it?” – Anne of Green Gables “Girl, you must be 49% feline.” – The Tabby’s Place cats
There is so much we would forget, if the cats weren’t here to remind us. For instance: diagnosis is not destiny. Joy resists the body’s buffoonery. You can be incandescently happy without, say, a working pancreas, or the use of your back legs. But there is a kind of grief more piercing than any wound, […]
All religions agree that certain things are holy. For instance: Moly. Mackerel. Cow. Guacamole. And, most importantly, cats.
We are too stingy with the word “saint.” We attach it to St. Valentine, but not the purring peacemaker who warms our lap and kneads our aches. We pin it on St. Patrick, but not the kitten who jolts us from our doldrums to prove that joy still exists, and gravity is subject to negotiation. […]
We buy Kit Kats. They are kit kats. We carve pumpkins with butter knives. They carve everything, with their own hands. We wear masks. They would never do such a thing. Cats are better at Halloween than we are.
We know a guy whose heart is so much bigger than his body, love sticks out his ears. If given the choice between a fifty-cheese taco and one head-bonk from Taco, he would choose the latter. And when he gets a little scared, he doesn’t chicken out. He chickens in.
Tutti is Italian for “everyone.” È perfetto, cento percento. For our Tuttie is for everyone.