Are you jumpy, kittens? Does this itchy, agitated world of ours have you jittery about June, and joy’s odds of survival, and the existence of jumping worms that clone themselves? Then you’ve come to the right place.
April, April, you merry little month. You bring us wicker baskets of blossoms, and wry wailing winds to whirl them all away.
From where I sit, legs dangling off the edge of the world, ready to be caught by 120 strong cats, I can tell you the following with a high measure of confidence: We have had ourselves a capital-M Month.
The world is weeping. Our brothers and sisters are shuddering in subways, crawling across borders, bearing their children and their grandparents and their ragged animals on their backs. Are we supposed to bask in jolly cat happenings at such a time as this?
January hath given, and January hath taken away. January hath given us Zebra Cake ice cream, and January hath taken away all remaining laughable attempts by our species to appear dignified. January hath taken away our queen Betty White (and our gentle jester Louie Anderson, and our soaring bard Meat Loaf), and January hath given […]
This has not been a normal holiday season. Fortunately, Tabby’s Place contains precisely zero normal cats, normal humans, or normal salamanders. (I can neither confirm nor deny the underground salamander kingdom of Tabby’s Place, nor their effective rule over the rest of us.)
In this life, there are good things that everyone agrees are good (pajamas, Stanley Tucci). There are good things that some good people believe are bad (candy corn, the 2012 Les Misérables). Such persons are still good, despite being wrong. There are ambiguous things that good and bad people can fight about for a good […]
If witches have “familiars” (cats, toads, bats, senators, etc.), we — whatever we are at Tabby’s Place — have “peculiars.” Halloween has come. Halloween has gone. All Saints and All Souls have made their annual appearance. But holidays are perpetual at the Place called Tabby’s, and we’re rich in treats and tricksters, holy mischief-makers and […]
Here we are, betwixt and between the Sturgeon Moon and sweater weather. August was robust and ridiculous in equal measure. But it deposited us here on September’s shores, and here, with you, is exactly where the cats and I want to be.
O July! We cannot fathom why you did the things you did.