Here are two pieces of free advice: 1) Don’t bet against old men. 2) Don’t attempt to outrun old cats.
Your name is more than something the deli guy yells when your sliced slaw is ready. It’s a certain signal to your essence. This is never truer than when it changes. And it’s never, ever truer than when you’re a cat.
With apologies to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, winter is not coming. This is the time of magnolias and birdsong and the leaping greenly spirits of trees. But that doesn’t mean we’re not game for a little snow.
As youze guyze are aware, the Linda Fund is afoot. From now through June 8th, if you donate through the little cloud on our homepage, your dollars will be doubled for the cats. That much, you know. Those doubled dollars will be devoted to emergency and specialty care for the neediest niblets. That much, you […]
If you think Tabby’s Place needs more secret passageways… If you think America’s Got Talent should be renamed America’s Got Problems… If you’re absolutely apoplectic about the impending cancellation of Sábado Gigante… …some cat, somewhere, is on your precise wavelength.
The world is a little less hairy today. Tabby’s Place is mourning the passing of one Ms. Claudette.
By the time you read this post, nerd prom will be over, the madding crowd will be far away, and a big green chap and his gangsters will be avenging on our behalf.* But much more importantly, things will have happened. They will have happened…because cats made them happen.
Sometimes it seems like this old world’s tree is being shaken down to its roots. Nepal. Baltimore. Yemen. Leaves scattered to the four winds. When the foundations are crumbling, what can the righteous do? Borrow the gaze of smaller, sager creatures.
Things change quickly in bloom-time. One day, the garden bed is a faint brown “no.” The next, all the green things yell “yes!” One day, we brace ourselves for kitten season. The next, we have four nursing moms and eighteen vole-sized smidgens.