‘Tis November, the month when cats understand us least. Why are we frittering away our lives reading clickbait like “47 Sentimental Snowmen For Hard-To-Shop-For Stepfathers” and “Sherpa Turtlenecks Your Boss Really Wants”? Why are we spending weeks preparing for poultry, when we could be eating it hourly? And what’s the deal with “giftable”?
There are appropriate contexts for gloves at Tabby’s Place: Conducting surgery. Cleaning (human) toilets. Performing Cabaret for Suite A. (Carrot appreciates jazz hands.) But handling jalapenos? Never.
Do you aspire to be spicy? Me, too. Do we know what that word really means? Habanero did.
Abandon all decorum, ye who enter here. This is Jerome‘s home, and we are but guests.
Hazey asked me to tell you that she hates kittens. Hazey asked me to tell you that she is, and I quote, “punk rock.” Hazey asked me to tell you that she is so punk rock, the earth opens up and releases dinosaurs when she walks by. Hazey asked me not to tell you that […]
“How was I not informed about Wilson?” Our Senior Veterinary Technician was indignant. She churned with righteous indignation. Her hoodie was coated in a downy layer of grey fur.
Much will be asked of you today. Sweep the Cheerios from the kitchen floor. Click all the pictures of stoplights. Deliver meat nuggets to a cat who thinks he is Caligula. Remember Magda.
They said he would not live. They said he could not see. They say loss is softer when you are “prepared.”
Oh, kittens. The situation is dire. The cats have called a special session of Tabby’s Place Parliament. The issue at hand: whether they can forgive us for October 2023.
How can you possibly write an obituary for a stranger? Only when they’re a friend.