Annie is not interested in going viral. Annie is not concerned with how many retweets she can get.* Annie is all about the business of living.
Tra-la… It’s May, which means spring is about to get real. We’re talking dogwoods. Tulips. Hydrangeas. And kittens. Baby kittens. Bring on the brain-liquefying, IQ-annihilating powers of kittens and their nuclear cuteness.
Be it known: if you spend any amount of time at Tabby’s Place, you will step in it. You will step in the vomit. You will step in the excrement. And, in more ways than one, you will step in The Wet.
Some Marthas make stenciled toilet-paper holders. Some Marthas make friends in prison. And some Marthas make the journey from death’s door to loud, proud life.
As a general rule, the Tabby’s Place cats started from the bottom. Now they’re here. Leading the race to the top these days is none other than our very own personal Sherpa.*
Any self-respecting feline will tell you: cats do not err. They do surprise you. They do make last-minute course corrections. But they do not make mistakes. N-O-N, no.
Some things do not make sense. For example: 1) That weird recurring dream in which you’re married to Dan Akroyd; 2) The way I find myself humming “Ode to Joy” when I clean litter boxes; 3) The fact that neither Angus nor Boris has yet been adopted.
It’s freeing to come clean about our smudges and strangeness. For instance: I wear more ruffles than is age-appropriate. I’m looking for a man who is equal parts Pope Francis and Jimmy Fallon. I habitually use more paper towels than required for the task at hand. I find some of the spam we get on […]
There are certain things we speak before saying things better left unspoken. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your cooking tastes like excrement.” “No offense, but I find you loathsome.” Or try this one on for size: “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but Tabby’s Place only has really sick cats.”
We did it, kittens. We marched forth. We outlasted the year that seemed like always winter and never Christmas. And now, Aslan is on the move. Now, wild dingoes couldn’t keep us from blooming.