Summon the cymbals and tympanis of autumn. This, kittens, was The Month. I don’t mean the month in which fall fell into place, although that’s grand. I don’t mean the month in which the universe bestowed us with Snoop Loopz cereal, although that’s transcendent. I don’t mean the month in which Tabby’s Place hosted both […]
I am aware of at least four definitions of “hurdy gurdy.” (Perhaps you are aware of more. Let’s talk.) A hand-cranked medieval string instrument Madness, chaos, and/or generalized cattywampus, topsy-turvy, hurly-burly bedlam Tabby’s Place (see #2) Life as a mortal being Obviously, all four of these meanings pertain to one Verde Rosenberg.*
O July! We cannot fathom why you did the things you did.
Tabby’s Place maintains a variety of “behavior logs.” If you are a cat, these are not the place you want to be. No, that’s not right. If you are a cat, these are exactly where you aspire to be.
Mu (μ) is the friction constant (it’s a physics thing). Constant mew can cause immense friction (it’s a cat thing).
We live in an opinion-rich reality. Maybe it’s the internet; maybe it’s the little rectangular megaphones we all carry in our pockets; maybe it’s just human nature. Whatever the cause, we’ve gotten catlike in our arrogance. Trouble is, it looks much better on them than on us.
It does matter that you’re still here. It does matter what you do.
Don’t do it, kittens. Don’t you dare let them underestimate you.
It is not all good. It is not all bad. I’m talking about this day, this week, this year, this life we share, like it or not.
I don’t need to spend years with a cat to love her. I don’t even need months. I don’t need weeks. The length of a day becomes a luxury when time is limited. Hours can represent tiny lifetimes if you fill them with meaning. Such was my time with Bianca.