Yesterday’s puzzler of a post has followed up on itself. Reality, that pesky giant gnat, insists that it can’t be bottled up on a blog.
We live in puzzling times. The cold and the cruelty and the chasms between us have never seemed so huge; hugs and grace and generosity of spirit have never seemed so scarce. Until, that is, we look closer. Nearer. Smaller.
In the Bible, Saul was a questionable name. In the Place called Tabby’s, Saul was the unquestioned champion.
Having Ducky at Tabby’s Place was ducky. Nay, it was more. It was supra-ducky. Uber-ducky. So transcendent of ducky it was Ducky with a capital D. But having Ducky adopted — with one transcendentally cool Tesseract, no less — was the Duckiest of all.
In a billion-dollar skincare industry, the concept of serenity looms large. Calm your acne. Calm your pores. Calm your insecurities about the imperfections we took the liberty of inventing for you. Serena isn’t buying it.
Democracy dies in darkness, so they say. But slinky brown tabbies thrive in darkness. For a time.
Salads. Ages and rages of kings. Cats of uncommon character. Cats who are uncommon “characters.”
Surgeon General’s warning: the following post may contain dangerous levels of both mayonnaise and punnery. We had a jarring experience at Tabby’s Place this week.
Good things happen in June. Good things also happen in eleven other months, but there’s something about June that just makes you want to…sing-a. Especially when it starts on a Friday, and you’re alive, and you live in a world in which cats exist.
In this world of many creatures, we need us all. The ones who think, and the ones who feel. The ones who act, and the ones who contemplate. The ones who remember The Safety Dance, and the ones who have never danced safely. Even, and especially, the ones who do all dancing in safety orange.