What is this all about? We are in the season of moonshadows and miracles. I do not mean summer.
What is the goal? Where is the end of the rainbow? Why is there always a carrot on the end of the stick, when it could be a brick of Spam?
As August ambushes July with a Super Soaker, we’re feeling ruffled in Ringoes. Cats are reasonable. They do not expect life to be a constant stream of meat products. They accept that sometimes the best they can do is a burger made of twenty slices of cheese. But no one at Tabby’s Place can accept […]
At life’s peak moments, classic cries split the sky: “Holy moly!” “Oh my stars!” “Zoiks!” “SHMOLDIE!”
The world tells us they are less valuable. We set their price above rubies.
“It will be seventy-five degrees and sunny every day, then rain softly all night. Everyone will be ensured a universal basic allowance of ravioli.” This was my old friend Rick’s campaign promise. Sunflower would not have voted for him.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Simone had a side hustle. There is increasing evidence that our lithest tortie is selling handicrafts.
It happens. It happens, and it happens, and it happens. It happens, and it happened, and it will happen again, as long as we are brave and outrageous. Never bet against the brave and outrageous.
We prefer to compare ourselves to unicorns and poetry, or at least something as honorable as string cheese. But if we’re being honest, we are the living embodiment of bowling alley bumpers. We should add this to our résumés proudly.
With apologies to her namesake, Tabby’s Place is the home of the only girl in the world. Now we just need to convince Rihanna that she’s safe under our umbrella.