I just drank a soda that was “transformation flavored.” But if it’s growth I’m after, I should have just consulted Pickles Rosenberg, LSW.
There is a note on my desk reading, “Everything is really, truly OK.” You might say we whisper this over every Tabby’s Place cat. That would be half the story.
When things go south, as they often do, it’s easy to feel like a stumped, stooped street slug. But South and Hope belong together. Just ask stoop child Charles.
I do not think Wooderson would mind being compared to a turnip. Actually, I do not think Wooderson would mind being compared to a tadpole, or a KFC Double Down, or Grover Cleveland, or anything at all, so long as the one doing the comparing is gazing into his eyes.
T.S. Eliot, who first discovered that every cat has three names, declared April to be “the cruelest month.” Clearly he did not know the names of Mayhem, Crumpet, or Patches.
He was just a common kitten. No name, no mother, no letter of recommendation. Just a tangle of tangerine fur, tearful eyes, and a hummingbird’s drumming heart. Just a cluster of “commons.”
Prescott is unimpressed with pencils. Like every ageless child, she has a soft spot for crayons. But her heart belongs to markers.
We were not all born to be comforting beverages. Once we get over this, we can get to the business of being pearls.
Our beef may be plant-based.* Our teeth may not yet exist. But make no mistake: the humans and kittens of Tabby’s Place are hunters at heart.