March, baby, we need to talk. That lion-and-lamb stuff is an understatement when it comes to you. Good heavens to Murgatroyd, did you ever march forth.
It’s true, kittens. We almost forgot to remember November.
“They” tell me it is now Meteorological Autumn. “They” say kitten season is on the wane. But the great, proverbial “they” don’t know a thing about the endless summer of cats.
How much can change in a group of friends before the bonds start to break down? How much can each member of a group grow before they begin to grow apart? These are the questions that tax sitcoms, soap operas, and residents of Suite A.
There’s ample room for many voices at Tabby’s Place. Loud ones. Proud ones. Tenors. Talkers. And even the ones whose songs surprise us.
In observance of President’s Day week, this post shall honor the cat who most echoes the statesmanship and service befitting the highest office in the land. By which, of course, I mean the cat who looks the most like Martin Van Buren.
It’s every twelve-year-old girl’s dream that The Boy will liken her to his favorite celebrity. I lived the dream…but it took a short-whiskered cat, twenty years later, to make me see just how downright dweamy it all was.
Some things come in waves. The ocean. Europop. Black-and-white cats.
Everything old is new again. OK, maybe not Dick Clark. Or Dick Cheney. But everything else.