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.
You can’t blame June for a blessed thing. I suppose you could, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Neither would 1.366 million kittens.
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.
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.