Changus
Things change: Seasons. Hemlines. Snoop Lion’s name. And this spring, Angus…has changed.
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It may have occurred to you at some point in time: Hot dang, I am in control! Maybe all the bills were freshly paid. You’d just brokered peace in the Middle East. Or perhaps you’d just purchased a 56-roll Family Pak of toilet paper.* But all it takes is a cat to remind you: you […]
Justin Timberlake is not going to drop a ragtime-opera fusion album.* Beyonce is not going to play our 37th president in Nixon: The Musical! And Sneakers will never embrace his inner James Bond. Smart celebrities stick to what they do best.
Annie is not interested in going viral. Annie is not concerned with how many retweets she can get.* Annie is all about the business of living.
Tra-la… It’s May, which means spring is about to get real. We’re talking dogwoods. Tulips. Hydrangeas. And kittens. Baby kittens. Bring on the brain-liquefying, IQ-annihilating powers of kittens and their nuclear cuteness.
Be it known: if you spend any amount of time at Tabby’s Place, you will step in it. You will step in the vomit. You will step in the excrement. And, in more ways than one, you will step in The Wet.
Some Marthas make stenciled toilet-paper holders. Some Marthas make friends in prison. And some Marthas make the journey from death’s door to loud, proud life.
As a general rule, the Tabby’s Place cats started from the bottom. Now they’re here. Leading the race to the top these days is none other than our very own personal Sherpa.*
Any self-respecting feline will tell you: cats do not err. They do surprise you. They do make last-minute course corrections. But they do not make mistakes. N-O-N, no.
Some things do not make sense. For example: 1) That weird recurring dream in which you’re married to Dan Akroyd; 2) The way I find myself humming “Ode to Joy” when I clean litter boxes; 3) The fact that neither Angus nor Boris has yet been adopted.