Oh, 2015, you’ve been a marathon year. We’re grateful. We’re hopeful. We’re tired.
OK, kittens, we’re in it. The heart of the thick of the midst of the “most wonderful time of the year.” Are you feeling it?
Tis the season to be feasty beasts. Gingerbread. Pfefferneuse. Fruitcake. Fudge. Linzer cookies. Strufuli.* Arid orbs of prescription cat food.
It’s gotta be hard, being Faye. Face of an angel… Cotton candy fur… Eyes of utter innocence…
Has it ever occurred to you that giving thanks is a radical act? That’s radical as in courageous maverick pioneer, not Point Break.
If you have not been hiding inside a tree or running for President, you are aware: Pope Francis is in da house. No, not Tabby’s Place, alas. But, as I type these words, the Pope is a mere hundred miles from Ringoes, NJ, and he’s got us having all kinds of papal fun-cio.
At this precise moment, it is 87 degrees in Ringoes, NJ, with a “RealFeel” of 90. I am not complaining. Neither are the cats. We are desert creatures. We do not beat the heat; we eat the heat. But in the event that you are a tundra creature ruing your sweaty life at this moment, […]
I don’t know where your mind wanders when it wanders. I don’t know what’s on your heart and on your soul today. I do know, with the certainty of 10,000 credos, that you are about to be emptied of all such things.
Today marks the eve of Lent, that serious season when folks make a spiritual practice of fasting from such things as injustice and selfishness and chocolate and Facebook. But before all that introspective stuff, folks get fat, Tuesday-style. So, of course, do cats.