We can’t control it. Cats can’t control it. “Control” is a comedic concept at times like these. The typhoon tickles itself, bursting into laughter. The tidal wave breaks the news, and it is more wonderful than our plans. Poncey and Andy get adopted together, and we’re surprised to find ourselves surprised.
Do you ever dream? Do you ever dream the sorts of dreams that make your toes twitch and your whiskers flicker?
There is a cord stronger than a double helix. Gator believes it is made of kielbasa. Arthur knows there is magic deeper still.
What are we doing here? Perhaps that’s an awfully vast question for a little cat blog. Perhaps that’s the only question for a little cat blog. Perhaps that’s the only question, full stop.
We are not the power. Love is the power. But oh, our light-force! when we turn our faces in its direction.
Every cat goes to bed satisfied that he saved the world that day. They are all correct. Since they go to bed and get up again eighteen times a day, this is quite an accomplishment.
I recently came upon a headline, “What we still don’t know about black holes.” It made me think of perennial questions, and perennial plants, and the smart, short-lived flowers we call cats.
Can I tell you a secret? I already told the cats, and they all agreed that I’m safe sharing it with you. Here goes. I’m Tabby’s Place’s Development Director (although I prefer Flipper of Fundraising Flapjacks)…and I’m not so sure about #GivingTuesday.
It happened again. It will keep happening. It will happen until our hearts harden like granite, like gristle, like “good sense.” Which is to say, it will keep happening.
I am good at some things: coining band names, remembering obscure theological miscellany, matching scrunchies to appropriate outfits. I am bad at many things: Carcassonne, remembering that “less is more,” remaining in the present moment. Cats are good at just about everything, but especially that last item.