Some things are so perfect, so magnificent, so very nearly heavenly, that to add to them would be criminal. This image, for instance. Or, the following update from Edward and Juju‘s Pa.
Tra-la… It’s May, which means spring is about to get real. We’re talking dogwoods. Tulips. Hydrangeas. And kittens. Baby kittens. Bring on the brain-liquefying, IQ-annihilating powers of kittens and their nuclear cuteness.
There are certain things we speak before saying things better left unspoken. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your cooking tastes like excrement.” “No offense, but I find you loathsome.” Or try this one on for size: “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but Tabby’s Place only has really sick cats.”
His name is Doc(tor) Watson. He’s interested in things. He’s not a real doctor, but he is a real Watson.*
October 16th was National Feral Cat Day. October 16th was also Boss’s Day. Coincidence?*
You know it’s autumn when you suddenly see galumphing hordes of gourds. Gourds at roadside stands. Gourds in the supermarket. Gourds in disturbingly-perfect centerpieces on Pinterest. Gourds in Suite FIV.
We humans are a fragile bunch. A day that starts in sunshine can take a sinister swerve for something as small as That Look from the boss, or a shirt that makes you look all muffin-toppy, or a replay of the MTV VMAs on the morning news. Cats have no such vulnerabilities.
Not all fruit can be low-hanging. Nor should it be. We all love the lazy-easy peaches that droop as pendulous as planets, heavy with sweetness and easy to pluck. But sometimes that tree is well worth the climb for the treasure in the leaves. I am, of course, talking about cats.
When words are few and hearts raw, God provides. This week, provision came in the form of letters from little people.
She‘s a little bit Enya. He‘s a little bit U2. Put ’em together, and you had a sort of saucy limerick. But what happens when you split them apart?