There’s no beating around this bristly, brutal bush. August 2018 dealt some awfulness in extremis at Tabby’s Place.
When your season arrives, you know. But until then, oh my stars, reality can be one ill-fitting suit.
There are goodbyes so long in coming, we come to expect that they will never come. When they come, they crash through us, a tsunami of tears that tear us to ribbons.
Confusion is not known as a great beautifier. Case in point: the evolution of Hemingway.
Mid-August did not taste good at Tabby’s Place. Loss upon loss upon pummeling loss left a sour note of unfinished business.
Let us now pause to ponder the significance of stains. I speak not of the stains that smirch the towels and blankets of Tabby’s Place, but those stains — alright, blots — that blotch psychological examinations.
Be it known: beautiful things get missed much too often. Case in point: Saturn just came really close to the moon. If we were looking, we could have seen four planets at once. Four. (Five, if you looked down at the one you were standing on.) Case in second point: Minneapolis could have shut down […]
The Linda Fund, that is. I rarely ask for donations in this space, but you bet your bouncy-house I’m gonna do so today. And I have help.