Happy New Year, kittens. Let us make a pact, today, while we still have confetti in our whiskers and something called “egg nog” in our fridges. (How did it get there? Who invented it? Why have we never had a Tabby’s Place cat named Nog? I digress.) Here’s the plan: we will not permit this […]
Our beautiful Cassandra predicts that none of us will keep our New Year’s resolutions.
When you’ve survived a hopeless situation, every day is a holiday. But some cats are feline festivities unto themselves. Shaggy is St. Patrick’s Day. Miss Kitty is National Hot Pastrami Sandwich Day (which is fast approaching, so I hope you have finished your shopping). And Willie is New Year’s Day.
What does 2026 know, that 2025 can’t imagine? How big can we dream, here on the porch swing between two years?
It is a grand thing to love every cat. It is an glorious thing to love one cat.
There is a special kind of fire burning steadily in the heart of Tabby’s Place.
Do you hear it, kittens? Do you feel it, when you lay your hand upon your heart?
We hold our breath on Christmas Eve. Can the promises hold our weight, though we are not kittens anymore? Can we hang onto all we believed, though are arms are full of grown-up things?
In December, we all wonder if we are making the “right” choices. What will we give everyone? Where will we go on New Year’s Eve? What is proper etiquette when Aunt Mafalda finds a cat hair in her mashed potatoes? Meanwhile, Chester‘s holiday season hangs on one choice alone.
Ricky and Twix will gladly accept catnip bananas. Buttery-soft blankets will not be returned to sender. (Neither will half-gallon tubs of butter.) Feel free to send them corn dogs, cheese logs, and flounder quarter pounders. But all they really want for Christmas is just to be fellas.