Some of the cats at Tabby’s Place behave exactly as we’d expect for their ages. Others? Not so much.
There is something special about Suite D at Tabby’s Place. Maybe it’s because I’ve been cleaning the suite’s solarium weekly for almost 2 years, but I don’t think so.
There are sentences one would never expect to hear. Weirdly combined nouns all mashed up with verbs that don’t seem to work together? Such things are commonplace at Tabby’s Place.
You probably do not consider chicken nuggets and cornbread an elegant meal, unless you are either feline, or ten years old. Fortunately, Chicken Nugget is both.
There was a time when kinfolk cloistered in Brooklyn brownstones or Omaha homesteads, Italian and Swedish singing across the clotheslines and generations. There was a time when Suite C was Suite C, and cats of a certain fatness stuffed the years like rollatini, together for (a) forever or (b) until someone slimmed their way elsewhere. […]
There is so much we can’t understand. The strange communion between cats and sinks. The way fear can birth meanness or mercy. The existence of free will. The existence of “Is It Cake?” a program in which persons slice questionable items to determine the presence of pastry. Ourselves. Each other. Cats.
My extraordinary spouse recently commented on a very particular habit of those who provide customer service over the phone. He noticed that they all say, “That’s perfect!,” or some version thereof. Turns out, I’m one of “those people.” We finally found a match for your calendar with our availability? Perfect! You received the email and […]
It is a great scandal, but not everyone is equally obsessed with every cat. Fortunately, every cat is flourescently obsessed with catself. And that is sufficient.