You can only hold so much, even if your cheeks are cavernous. You can only hold so much, even if your cheeks have earned you the name “Cheeks.”
In an age of dubious news, it’s good to know you can always identify headlines not written by cats. For instance: “Why does cheese give you nightmares?” Even more chillingly: “Fifteen things making your home look outdated.”
May I get rambunctiously real with you, kittens? I do not mean the way Hips gets with Prescott, although there is value in hippopotamussing your friends. (If you know Hips, you know that “hippopotamus” is a verb.) I do not mean the way Valerie gets with her stuffed shrimp and lobster, although there is merit […]
November has a rickety reputation among cats. Braggarts belch about turkeys, but no Butterballs roll into the Tabby’s Place lobby. (Prescott checked under all the chairs. None.) There are credible rumors of something entitled “stuffing,” but limited evidence beyond garlicky human kisses. It’s almost enough to make a cat stop giving thanks.
Age can make you outrageous. Age should make you outrageous. But I have a feeling Buster did not wait for senior status to become sensational.
Fenek was one small cat in one rural New Jersey room. He was the size of the entire world, and his universe was ever expanding.
How many days have you lived today? How many of them were holidays? How many of them were Derbish days?
In the literary realm, “ekphrastic” refers to poetry inspired by a visual image. In the Tabby’s Place realm, “ekphrastic” refers to everything we do at all times.
It’s Thanksgiving at Tabby’s Place. It’s the fourth Thursday in November. These facts do not entirely overlap.
We come to the twilight of the year. Will we mourn the sun, or turn our chins up to the skylights? Will we lament leaves and lilies, or ascend the bare hills? In short: will we be humans, or will we be cats?