Sometimes people thank us for doing great things at Tabby’s Place. “You do things that are great,” they say. “You do them greatly.” Our hungry egos slaver over this. But the truth is, we could not do a single thing, greatly or pitifully, if not for the cats.
I very nearly titled this post, “Cat knows not her time.” On second thought, however, perhaps she does.
It’s often said that, if cats could talk, they wouldn’t. After all, they are speaking all the time. It’s up to us to read their glyphs — or, in the case of Lil, their cloud-veiled eyes.
He’s still deciding if Tabby’s Place is the Ritz. He’s overwhelmed by life, liberty, and the number of flavors of Cheez-Its. But if you’re looking for a cat more wholesome than a Wheat Thin and cuter than a Goldfish, Triscuit is the salt of your earth.
Sometimes we are given impossible instructions. “Do not heckle the sub tomorrow,” says your 7th-grade teacher. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” says the clod about to tell you your hair looks like Brillo. “Respond to this in dignified fashion,” say the 100,000 people who signed the official government petition to deport Justin Bieber. And, […]
I do not know if the Garden State has an official gem.** I do know, however, that it has a hidden treasure, the jewel of New Jersey: the rare striped Ruby.
Before we forge ahead, let’s address the elephant in the room. Following Tashi‘s death, it feels sacrilegious to just pick up and go on with the business of joy.
I don’t know if this is legal, but you can force things to bloom. This is true of all sorts of things: forsythia. Hydrangeas. Frozen humanity.
People with lots of letters after their names say that January is very, very hard. They say that more of us are sad and snarky and downright dangerous to ourselves and others in this month. They say a lot of things.