If there’s a chill in the air today, don’t blame December. We shiver because a great fire has gone out. A great fire…in the form of one smallish, impish brown tabby.
Continued from yesterday… The countess, it turns out, was made of music, equal parts Edith Piaf and Joan Jett, opera and rock and roll and lyrical liquid honesty. (“O! I AM HUNGRY. O! I am here. O! I am AWAKE. O! you are gnarly. O! we should print meat. O! New Jersey is CRACKIN’. O! […]
It’s not easy being a countess at a cat sanctuary. But when you’re as easy to love as Consetta, you find your way.
Nyla left us on November 9th, 69 years to the day after the poet Dylan Thomas. He was 39; she was considerably older, in the scratchy arithmetic of cat years. They both knew a thing or two about rage, and light, and reigning. And on November 10th, when our grief is gale-force, we need all […]
It happened again. It will keep happening. It will happen until our hearts harden like granite, like gristle, like “good sense.” Which is to say, it will keep happening.
It is never easy to write a “Forever Loved,” not even those times when the words just pour out. And this is not one of those times. When it comes to Wonton, words come, get all jumbled up, and skitter off in all directions. They are as afraid of being recognized by humans as Wonton […]
What is the Linda Fund? The Linda Fund is the friend who shows up with a torch in your darkness, smiling and calming and kind. The Linda Fund is the answer to questions we’re often too scared to ask. The Linda Fund is the triumph of love over despair. The Linda Fund is happening today.
Tearstained preface: this post, written weeks ago, was not meant to be a “Forever Loved.” Bartholomew, the improbable bard and ballast of the Development Office, was never “meant” to survive past a few weeks…but he did, with tenderness and derring-do. Which meant the blind, deaf seer was never meant to leave us. But that’s what […]
If you always expect the worst, you will be pleasantly surprised. If you always expect the best, you will be pleasant, period. And if you always expect that tomorrow just might be your birthday, you will approach the pleasure known only to cats.
How do you catch a comet with a fairy-tale white tail? How do you shoehorn poetry into prose? How do you do justice to a giant of glamour and grace? You don’t. You simply behold, breathtaken and besotted. And in the case of Faye, you hold your beloved even when she’s slipped your arms.