Notre Pierre
He thinks he is from France. We are not going to tell him he is from Connecticut. We are certainly not going to tell him this is New Jersey.
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He thinks he is from France. We are not going to tell him he is from Connecticut. We are certainly not going to tell him this is New Jersey.
Never, ever, ever. Ever, ever, ever. Ever. Never. Ever. Ever. Now you know the point at which you are permitted to give up.
There are orange collared cats, and then there are orange frosted cats. There are final warnings, and then there are new beginnings.
Any one day has a way of being something different for all beings. For cats, such days can be wrapped in delicately smoked trout on crunchy crackers, or they can be whipped into a frenzy of furtive, furry activity.
Luck is fine, if your aspirations are modest. Luck may win the MegaMillions. But luck is far too little for a kitten.
“With a name like that, shouldn’t that guy be missing an eye?” “Is ramen really a legitimate pillow?” Human beings ask a lot of silly questions.
If you have never spontaneously exclaimed, “I’m as slaphappy as a shamrock!”, my condolences. This is incontrovertible proof that you have never spent time with Hibou.
What are words worth? At Tabby’s Place, the math is, necessarily, as woolly as cats.
When you have been the most loved, you have the most to give. When you have been the best loved, you are the best one to love. But when “loved” passes into past tense, you may feel like the last living creature on earth.