Oh August, sweet little August, you are young yet, and tender. Yet as you grow, we have a request for you. On behalf of every individual of every species on every continent, subcontinent and islet: please be kind.
We try to keep it real on this blog. That said, if you ever hear me utter the words “I’m keepin’ it real,” please take me gently by the hand and take me to a quiet room where you can apply duct tape to my mouth (preferably glitter duct tape).
Much is hard in this world of ours. The tulips have given their last. There are wars and rumors of wars. We lost Grace, and Ali, and control of our tear ducts.
You come to this corner of the internet of your own volition. We don’t take that for granted. You put up with the ramblings of the insane. You laugh and cry with us. But really, you come for cat photos.
Sometimes Gratuitous Cat Photos move. Sometimes they meow.
Supposedly, it’s March hares that are madder than a hatter. But, ’round here, May is the month of mirthful, mind-splattering madness, courtesy of 100,000,000,000 kittens.*
We are connoisseurs of irony at Tabby’s Place. For instance: The cats of Suite B are currently playing with a tiny stuffed George W. Bush.* The cats with inflammatory bowel disease live in our staff lunch room. And cats — or, at least, one cat — can acquire sleep disorders.
OK, guys. We need to talk about Henrietta.
I’ve just realized (yet) another way we differ from cats. We are continually, perpetually, all of us, defending our lives.
Riddle me this, righteous ones. Who’s smaller than Prince, more curious than a kindergartener, and stranger than an entire stage of preening presidential candidates?