Was it a good day? The cayenne stray died. The wary child chose silence. The meaty beast bared some, not all. Was it a good day?
There was a time when kinfolk cloistered in Brooklyn brownstones or Omaha homesteads, Italian and Swedish singing across the clotheslines and generations. There was a time when Suite C was Suite C, and cats of a certain fatness stuffed the years like rollatini, together for (a) forever or (b) until someone slimmed their way elsewhere. […]
Are you sure you want to join us out here? The twig is thin. The risks are real. The view is magnificent. You are exceedingly welcome here. But Blaze and I want to be sure you know what you’re getting into.
You will have everything you need to thrive, medically and metaphysically. You will never go a day without meat products of some nature. You will not end up alone.
It is June, the season for the footloose. You look down and see flip-flops or gladiator sandals. You may even be wise as a cat, which is to say barefoot. Or you may still have your snowshoes on.
He arrived geriatric and intergalactic. He was the patriarch of impossible panache. Mortimer would make no time for mourning, but mere mortals must weep.
We tend to think that cats are simple. Cats note this on their yellow legal pads, nod at one another, and confirm: humans are precious simpletons. Rusty finds us particularly adorable.
“This is not a drill.” These were my shining colleague Bree’s exact words. More precisely: “THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!”
If this should all end tomorrow, Mr. Mustache could be proud for the rest of his life. Mr. Mustache has done good work. Mr. Mustache has changed the entire world.
There is a cord stronger than a double helix. Gator believes it is made of kielbasa. Arthur knows there is magic deeper still.