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.
She is not responsible for making the donuts. It’s below her pay grade to fold Berry‘s underpants. Sadie writes her own job description.
Shelby is fourteen. If she were human, Shelby would be seventy-five. Nevertheless, Shelby is a baby. We have the pictures to prove it.
If you have hurtled through hard times with your soft heart intact, you deserve a victory chant. Much more: you are a victory chant. Everyone hear it for Kamate, Kamate!
It might appear that Tabby’s Place is the best thing that ever happened to Wally. But really, Wally is the best thing that ever happened to Wally. Now we just need to convince Wally.
It was just a funny little typo on our staff message board: “I recreated Graham.” She didn’t. She couldn’t. Even if she could, she wouldn’t. But it was the type of typo that reminds us what type of critters we are.