We have many ways to describe a short-tempered cat. They are zesty and sassy, carbonated and opinionated. They are curmudgeonly and persnickety and assertive and Olive. You can call them cayenne or jalapeno or gingery or spicy. But it turns out you can’t call them Spicey.
Was he just too small to make it? Were we just too small to save him? Or is love larger than the questions grief can’t answer?
Cats smile, just not with their mouths. And, Heidi grins with her entire body.
Losing your person may feel like the meanest misfortune. But if there’s a four-leaf clover in your carrier, something greater than luck carried you here.
A toucan can be a spokesbird for Froot Loops. A parrot can recite the lyrics to “Margaritaville.” But it takes a Macaw to speak the full truth.
A five-week-old kitten is not flashy, gaudy, or “big” by any measure. She does not command an army or summon the sunrise. She is as humble as a molecule and as shy as the night’s first star. But the smallest speck of light builds the entire universe.
Trent insists that you get to know all (or more) about Tabby’s Place, and, of course, about him too…and maybe some of the other cats in residence.
In ancient Greece, Cassandra had the gift of prophecy, but the curse that no one would believe her. In modern-day New Jersey, Cassandra has the gift of grief, and the promise that everyone will believe her.
Nobody makes it out of kittenhood without disappointment. By the time your tail gets long enough to curl, you learn: life is not all pinwheels and squeeze-cheese. There are days in spring as cold as deep December. And there will always be some people who think you are “just a cat.” But then, there are […]
None of the cats at Tabby’s Place has won an Academy Award for best song, nor anything else for that matter. It’s not for want of trying.