As its own sovereign nation, the Republic of Tabby’s Place is at liberty to establish holidays. There is St. Squeezemeat’s Day, in honor of the genius who first packed liquid poultry into a Go-Gurt tube. There is Skritchmas, a solemn observance of chin rubs and forehead boops. Every third Thursday, the cats thank their Maker […]
Quick, somebody get Vidal Sassoon. Who has the number for Frédéric Fekkai? Or should we call Jennifer Aniston? Who is the proper first responder when the emergency involves Frizz?
Gator is open to a world of perspectives. Gator understands that people of goodwill can disagree on many matters. Gator also believes in telling people when they are wrong.
The cats have a beef to pick with you and me. They can’t agree whether it’s a roast beef or a corned beef. Regardless, we’re really in trouble this time.
He strolls, but he makes someone else do the strolling. He pulls out his hair, but only to confirm he’d be a handsome Sphynx. He’s Arnold, and he makes everything look good.
Today is the day. The world is waiting, breathless, to see what we will decide. We may not know the outcome by the time we go to sleep. Only history can tell if we chose wisely. History, and Olive.
Let’s not be too hard on this planet. It may be responsible for low-rise jeans, halitosis, and individually wrapped cheese slices. But it also gave us Dolly Parton, chickpeas, and cats who celebrate Bastille Day. Or at least one. And he happens to be ours.
We will not be covering the US Presidential Election on this blog. This is a selfish decision on my part, I know. But my hobbies include “avoiding panic attacks” and “not getting fired,” so here we are. Also, the cats’ preferred candidate already dropped out, by whom of course I mean Hulk Hogan. We will, […]
There is a time to spin, and a time to sprawl. A time to toil, and a time to turn into a tide-pool of molasses. A time to care, and a time to care less. A time for acid rock, and a time for acedia…feline edition.