People with lots of letters after their names say that January is very, very hard. They say that more of us are sad and snarky and downright dangerous to ourselves and others in this month. They say a lot of things.
It has come to my attention that, every spring, those buttoned-up and staid Brits engage in a sport befitting crumpets and Queens. They chase a nine-pound ball of cheese down a steep hill.*
There’s ample room for many voices at Tabby’s Place. Loud ones. Proud ones. Tenors. Talkers. And even the ones whose songs surprise us.
You may have heard it said, “believe half the things you see, and none of the things you hear.” But I say unto you: go ahead and believe all the things you hear in Suite A.
Think carefully before you answer this one. At your twenty-year high school reunion, do you want to be immediately recognizable? Before you answer too swiftly, I present you a cautionary tale from Feta and Bleu.
Tabby’s Place is blessed in many ways. But as of this afternoon, we are woefully short in a key commodity: cats whose names end with the seventh letter of the Greek alphabet.
I’m not sure who said it first. But somewhere in the last few weeks, several of us foolish human beans have dared to remark, “It’s awfully late in kitten season for us to have no kittens.” Foolish, foolish human beans.