The cats have many reasons to call us dingbats, dunderheads, and hairy turnips. For instance: We have the technology to install a fountain of mozzarella in the lobby, but we don’t. We deplete our beef nugget budget to buy “lint rollers,” which we then deploy to remove fur that (a) was placed with great intention […]
When you love like Lola loved, you are larger than life. When you live like Lola lived, you don’t leave anyone feeling small. But when you leave us, we can’t imagine life without you.
It is as clear as black and white that some cats are much shier than others.
Tabby’s Place cared about Finale before she believed us. We cared, with no guarantee that she would ever believe us. Love does not come with guarantees, but love does not care about that.
Roberta has known the endless, colorless Monday. Lucinda has lived the bleak and bewildering Thursday. But Sunday came, and Sundays come to stay.
There was no time. Not a smidge. There were only twelve smidgens, and numerous adults. When there is no time, everyone feels like a smidgen.
Trent could have been born on a Viking longship. Prescott might have ruled neolithic Bulgaria. Fold history a little differently, and you could pilot a starship seven thousand years from now.
Every time a cat comes to Tabby’s Place, we find ourselves testing out new ground.
We all write our own little stories about the cats. “Hips and Prescott are married,” for instance. Or, “Pepita has a Nobel Peace Prize.” Or, “before Tabby’s Place, Baby worked as an ice cream man.” You do it. I do it. We would hardly be human if we didn’t do it. But the cats’ true […]
Don’t be too quick to guess the coolest cat in the room. It could be the debonair tuxedo with the rubbable belly and the Dean Martin meow. Or, it could be the guy the color of granola, with a literal chip on his shoulder.