I am not the most tech-dependent person around. Music geekiness, I get, but wired stuff? Not so much.
If I were a sappier sort, I might say that mama cats are like snowflakes: no two are exactly alike. But I’ve been around cats long enough to know that metaphor doesn’t quite work. Mama cats are more like…Koosh balls.
What would you say if I told you we have the feline equivalent of Tom Jones here at Tabby’s Place? Actually, we have more than one of them. Seriously. It’s not unusual.
There are no rocking chairs at Tabby’s Place. That’s true in at least two senses.
Old Tabby’s Place lore is shrouded in mystery, myth and cat hair. Why did the cats’ identification numbers start at 10, not 0? Just how many cats named Oreo have been here over the years? And how did the suites get their names?
There’s a new diva in town, and that’s diva with a capital D-I-V-A. Make that D-I-V-A in 80-foot-tall neon letters, encrusted in sparkles.
Some feats of awesomeness happen quickly. Think of dropping Mentos into a can of Diet Coke. Others take some time: making vegan Coq au Vin. (It can be done.) Training for the decathlon. Making your home in someone’s heart. Becoming tame.
What’s all the fuss about some Derek Jeter guy hitting 3,000 baseballs? I mean, that’s cool and all, but not in comparison with another slugger and eight-plus FIV+ cats.
You may have heard that cats have issues with territory. Hm. It might be more accurate to say that, when territory’s at issue, each cat is a cranky old guy with a farmer’s tan, sitting on the edge of his farm, atop a pile of hay, brandishing a sawed-off shotgun and snarling, “Get offa ma land, ya hear?”
Sometimes hearing from an old friend can remind you just how hard your universe rocks. A simple “how have you been?” can make you realize that the answer is “Blessed…big time.”