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.
There are so many things I wish we could tell people who are “not cat people.” I wish we could tell them that, when you and a cat bump your foreheads together, everything in the whole world is okay. I wish we could tell them that tabby stripes are lifelines. I wish we could tell […]
Cats defy logic. Cats also defy reason. That is probably why a few cats at Tabby’s Place insist on breaking the rules about the non-touchability of bellies. These are the few, the proud, The Belly Boys.
He was 7-Up, not Chardonnay. He was a tie-dyed RV, not an Aston Martin. He was Foosball, not figure skating; Cartoon Network, not CNBC; flannel, not cashmere. So, how our most casual, comfortable cat get a title and a tuxedo? Simple: Mr. Man always had a sense of occasion.
When you are a feral cat, you rely on yourself. You walk the Earth with strength and dignity. Yet the day may come when you cease to walk alone. Just ask Pisa.
A mustache may be a good disguise if you are hiding from the paparazzi. But nothing could hide Mr. Mustache from the power of love.