Cats do not ford rivers.* Cats do not gas up the car. To Grandmother’s house they do not go. But they travel, my word do they travel.
Is life a tragedy or a comedy? How about Tabby’s Place?
As promised, today you feast on a tale of l’amour vrai. Nothing I could say could conceivably enhance the miracle you’re about to enjoy, and so I hand things over to a gentleman we’ll simply call Monsieur Le Plus Awesome:
This is a public service announcement: you now have one month to finalize your plans for Bastille Day 2014. Time’s wasting, kittens. Fortunately, a certain Tabby’s Place alumna — make that ancienne étudiante — has some inspiration for you.
If you like to sing-a, say, about: 1. The moon-a 2. The June-a and/or 3. The spring-a, you are in luck. May has gone, The June-a has come, and it brings you cat tidings.
Any self-respecting feline will tell you: cats do not err. They do surprise you. They do make last-minute course corrections. But they do not make mistakes. N-O-N, no.
I don’t generally like putting words in other people’s mouths. That’s how you end up with creepy things like the eTrade baby commercials. But I feel confident I speak for all of us when I make the following controversial statement: I love cats.
How much can change in a group of friends before the bonds start to break down? How much can each member of a group grow before they begin to grow apart? These are the questions that tax sitcoms, soap operas, and residents of Suite A.
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.