Friends are reuniting. F*R*I*E*N*D*S are reuniting. As months go, you might say this May was The One With High Hopes. Then again, we are in the business of cats, so hopes around here are always Himalaya-high.
Come ye, kittens, to our monthly wrap-up, and I shall show ye great and terrible things from the furthest realms. Which is to say, cats, in galumphing abundance, from the strangest town in central New Jersey.
You may be vaccinated. You may be agitated. But spring, and hope, and cats are marching on, and I hope you’ll come along.
February was not fully perfect. Cases in point: Something has gone horribly wrong with all the butter in Canada. Elvira is no longer ours for the hugging. Daft Punk has broken up. Additional case in point, pointedly true every month: our collective sanity has broken up (HA HA HA I MADE A FUNNY! “COLLECTIVE SANITY” […]
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.
YOU HAVE MADE IT PAST LEVEL TWELVE. YES, I AM YELLING.
Be it known that November 2020 has come, November 2020 has gone, November 2020 will not be back again. You and me and the cats, though? We’re still here.
What shall we say of you, October 2020? How would you like to be remembered?
There’s something about September that makes us wistful. By “us,” naturally, I mean exclusively humans. Cats are mercifully devoid of all the wist that twists us in nostalgic knots.
You gave us wonder and splendor. You gave us the return of Bill and Ted (see above). You gave us the feast day of St. Augustine, and the annual pondering as to whether or not his friends called him “Gus.” You gave us an uncommonly high volume of marmalade cats.