I walk down the hallway toward my bedroom and a baby-like bleating pipes up. I lean over the baby gate into my craft room and he meows again, more softly. “Hello, Domino!” I call, and he meows again with such little volume it’s no more than his mouth opening and a whisker wiggle.
We live in an age in which it’s easy to be famous. That’s unfortunate, because being famous is hard.
Oh December. Just when we’re ready to write you off as a dastardly doer of dastardly deeds, you give us a thrill of hope, and some out-of-season kittens.
2016 was a doer of some dastardly deeds. The New Year is still nearly formless and void. But a very good spirit is hovering over the waters here. It is the spirit…of birthday cake.
This year is in danger of being remembered for what it took. But woe to us if we forget what 2016 gave.
The measure of a year depends entirely on the scale. For thirteen lucky cats, 2016 was the grandest year of all.
Holidays are terrific, terrible reminders of all the feelings you have ever felt. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you are a cyborg. And you know and I know that you’re as real as life and breath and egg nog.
If you’re a cat, or a three-year-old, you do not mind repetition. Make the feather fly again! Start the Doc McStuffins DVD again!
With apologies to Santa, I’m asking the cats for gifts this year. Besides, I’d rather sit Bucca in my lap than personally sit in a bearded globetrotter’s lap any day.