It’s not often I receive an email containing the words “I want to eat your soul.” Fortunately, this message was not from an online dating site; it was from Tabby’s Place alumna Chickadee.
We love our adopters. We loathe our adopters. Let me explain.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of something no eyes should see. And mine ears have heard the yowls of a Community Room divided. Gunther is here, and he’s declared war.
Target has Missoni and Jason Wu. H&M has Versace and Marni. But only Tabby’s Place has Webster.
If you’ve not yet done your holiday shopping, allow me to extend my condolences. The malls this week will be only slightly less tragic and messy than The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, without the benefit of Gordon Lightfoot. But where there are Tabby’s Place cats, there’s hope.
You may have heard that cats have issues with territory. Hm. It might be more accurate to say that, when territory’s at issue, each cat is a cranky old guy with a farmer’s tan, sitting on the edge of his farm, atop a pile of hay, brandishing a sawed-off shotgun and snarling, “Get offa ma land, ya hear?”