I am aware of at least four definitions of “hurdy gurdy.” (Perhaps you are aware of more. Let’s talk.) A hand-cranked medieval string instrument Madness, chaos, and/or generalized cattywampus, topsy-turvy, hurly-burly bedlam Tabby’s Place (see #2) Life as a mortal being Obviously, all four of these meanings pertain to one Verde Rosenberg.*
Tabby’s Place maintains a variety of “behavior logs.” If you are a cat, these are not the place you want to be. No, that’s not right. If you are a cat, these are exactly where you aspire to be.
I wish I could tell you why people get mean when they’re really just scared. I wish I could tell you why they don’t write more songs about the smell of thunderstorms. I wish I could tell you why I don’t “get” avocado; no, not even in the form of guac; yes, I have tried […]
There are things worth being afraid of: pestilence, vegan cheese, the awakening of the 17-year horde of cicadas, people who think it’s a good idea to eat aforementioned cicadas, Christopher Walken. There are other things not worthy of our fears: change, aging, our own littleness, mystery.
You may be vaccinated. You may be agitated. But spring, and hope, and cats are marching on, and I hope you’ll come along.
I suppose we were asking too much of you, 2021. We demanded that you atone for the sins of your predecessor. We commanded that you carry all of our hopes. We thought, at least, that you could be good-weird rather than civilization-tottering-weird.
There’s just one to go, my little goobers. Month, that is. But it may as well be a moment.
November arrives full of “alls.” Yesterday was All Saints Day. (The cats celebrated themselves appropriately.) Today is All Souls Day. (The cats snickered “bless your soul” at us inappropriately.) And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, we’re lavished with the luscious “alls” of 125 Tabby’s Place residents in all their muchness.