So here we stand, at the end and the beginning. Cats know that there are only ever beginnings. Cats know many things beyond our reach. But they are gentle, and permit us to believe in figments — endings, the concept of “age appropriate,” the existence of credible vegan cheese — as long as necessary. Perhaps […]
In this world of many creatures, we need us all. The ones who think, and the ones who feel. The ones who act, and the ones who contemplate. The ones who remember The Safety Dance, and the ones who have never danced safely. Even, and especially, the ones who do all dancing in safety orange.
We don’t know where this is going. As a result, we have A Nervous. Hold the Breakdown, but hold it where we can see it, because it may become necessary.
Not every Thanksgiving turkey is made of bird. Not every Thanksgiving meal ends with pumpkin pie. And not every thankful cat includes “adoption” on her gratitude list.
Quite a lot happened this week in history. The Feast Day of St. Francis. The Battle of Largs. The births of Gandhi and Vaclav Havel and Sting. The 14th anniversary of Tabby’s Place.
Farmers have their markets. Carnies have their carousels. And we, we have our kittens by the quintillions.
There are songs about winter, spring and fall. But there are songs about summer. And that’s no coincidence.
Saying goodbye to a cat never feels right. But sometimes it feels distinctly unfair. So it was with Cleo.
Some cats cause predictions to fall out of our mouths the minute they arrive at Tabby’s Place. “He’s not going to be here very long at all.” “This little girl is probably going to get adopted right out of Quarantine.” But the funny thing about predictions is, they can be profoundly wrong.