She’s not gonna be our president, guys. It’s over. She lost. Sable #TinyTail2016 Rosenberg was not elected.
This is a love letter. Most who know me know that I love cats. Those who know me well know that I love old cats. This is a love letter to the old cats.
To state the obvious: this has been a brutal season for bleeding hearts. If you’re feeling a bit bloodied by it all, this post is for you.
Time expands and contracts in the presence of someone you love deeply. Expands: How has Adelaide only been with us a year and a half, when clearly it was all our lives? Contracts: How could we only have days left?
October and all of its surprises are in the books. Cubs in the Series. Cats in girdles. Swiss-cheesey holes in undisclosed locations.
In between kissing Bucca’s head and raising money for Bucca all the cats, I thought some existential thoughts this week. These were sparked by adventures in diabetes.
Today, pumpkins and Pikachus are in abundance elsewhere, so we’ll give you what Tabby’s Place alone can offer: Weirdness.
It was not your ordinary high school emergency. But what it lacked in juvenile delinquents, it more than made up in juvenile drama.
Cats make us do a lot of goofy things. They make us talk in a pitch only cats and bats can hear. They make us sing original songs with lyrics like “Meeeeeeeeatball is a sweeeeeeeetball.” They make us swaddle them in girdles.
The world is very different in 2016 than it was in 2003, when Tabby’s Place opened. Despite coming of age in a digital world, our teenage sanctuary is undeniably analog.