These are the times that call for parchment and inkwells. These are the hours for which we wait. These are the days of female cats in Suite FIV.
No one intends to get older, much less old. But the surprise comes for us all. One minute you’re building a tree fort with your imaginary friend Zenobia;* the next you catch yourself saying, “This weekend, I’m really looking forward to reorganizing my sock drawer.”
The clocks are changing. The colors are changing. And you and me and 125 cats…we’re changing, too.
If you hang around Tabby’s Place for any length of time, you will unavoidably encounter the word “shmoldie.” Repeatedly. Inescapably. Inexplicably.
Since c. 2005, Tabby’s Place has had a cadre of “Community Cats.” Since c. 2019, Tabby’s Place has had one cross-eyed “NON COMMUNAL NO NO NO TO COMMUNITY Cat.”
Tabby’s Place has hosted no fewer than six Oreos, five Kittys, and a full flotilla of Tigers. So, in 2,900 cats and counting, it’s somewhat surprising that we’ve only had a single Rascal.
Tabby’s Place is wondrous. Tabby’s Place is 7,000 square feet (and counting) of land. But this ain’t no Wonderland.
There are leaders who will bleed ya. There are leaders who will need ya. But few and precious are the leaders who will feed ya.
Every cat deserves attention. Every cat deserves to be marveled at. But very few cats cause every single observer to exclaim, “Oh, my!”
I regret to inform you that Ghost is not impressed. Oh, you say you’re the President of both Trinidad and Tobago? Oh, so you’ve won a Grammy, an Emmy, a Tony and an Oscar? Oh, and also you are verifiably Elvis? Ghost is not impressed.