“Never let them see you sweat” is one thing. “Never leave them wondering about your love” is everything. Cats have chosen the better thing.
There is an unpretentious bush across from my balcony. It’s brown. Rectangular. Unremarkable. Until it makes its own remarks, which remake autumn. And now, for every November until the final embers, it shall be known as “Gulliver.”
O! Planet October, how did you enter our orbit? There we were, Septembering along like woolly bear caterpillars, when POOF! you filled the sky and turned our world upside-down. And now, O! October! Here we are with stars in our eyes and stomachs full of butterflies and so many shouts and sighs, I don’t know […]
It happened again. It will keep happening. It will happen until our hearts harden like granite, like gristle, like “good sense.” Which is to say, it will keep happening.
I saw Batman on the bypass this morning. I saw Oram in Suite FeLV. I don’t need to explain which was more exciting.
The following is an under-reported truth, buried under less important stories by more eminent media outlets. But that’s why you turn to Tabby’s Place for the real, wriggly deal. And here it is: cats have mixed feelings about Halloween.
Where did you learn to crawl? Where did you learn to walk? Where will you learn to crawl again? Where will you be when you learn how much Fergie hates the song Fergalicious?
What if nobody knew your birthday? Would you never celebrate? Or would you continually celebrate? Would you cease to exist? Or would you exist at ten times your actual size?
What if we all sat around the fireplace and pulled oysters and pearls from our week? The cats would strongly prefer that we pull all the catfish out of all the bayous and dance like Kokopelli around the bonfire, but they’ll accept this pale substitution.
I love Polly. It’s true. I love Polly, and I don’t care who knows. Wait, that’s not quite right. I love Polly, and I want everyone to know, so that you’ll all love her, too.