You gave us wonder and splendor. You gave us the return of Bill and Ted (see above). You gave us the feast day of St. Augustine, and the annual pondering as to whether or not his friends called him “Gus.” You gave us an uncommonly high volume of marmalade cats.
Let me ask you a question you’ve surely pondered often. If you’re gonna be an oak tree, which oak tree will you be?
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.
If you read Felis Catus on the regular, you know: we do our Epilogues on the first Friday of the month. That’s Friday as in tomorrow, as in, not today. However, there’s news of Jurassic proportions barreling our way tomorrow. We don’t want to unveil this epic information before it’s officially hatched, though, hence the […]
We are all longing for something. When we are in control think we are in control, we can cover this with niceties and propriety. “I’m fine. All’s cool. No worries.” When we are honest, we’re prone to act like Coco.
It’s over, homies. The worst of winter. The chalky cavalcade of Conversation Hearts. The days without daffodils. And your wait for the cats’ monthly wrap-up.
If you wisely observed Mumford Monday this week, you already know we can soon look forward to a song about Broad-Shouldered Beasts.* But did you know there are Tabby’s Place cats singing their own Tabby’s Place songs beyond the gates of Tabby’s Place?
Now is not the winter of our discontent. Now is not yet the triumphal procession towards spring. Now is the holy roll of ordinary time at Tabby’s Place.