Memorial days
There is something artificial about setting aside one particular day to remember. Artificial, yes. But also merciful.
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There is something artificial about setting aside one particular day to remember. Artificial, yes. But also merciful.
October 2013 gave us many gifts. Leaves the color of honey. Sweater weather. The monumental cultural achievement of Bad Grandpa.
There comes a time, in the life of every cat tree, when the time has come. The time…when time is up.
The arrival of The World’s Most Famous Infant has people talking about royalty: crowns and Union Jacks and kingly things. People who know about these things say it’s good to be king. To which, as often, the Tabby’s Place cats say: o really?
Warning: deep thoughts ahead. If you smell something burning, consider yourself warned. I’d venture to say that much of the pain in the world is caused by exclusion. The human world, that is.
Tabby’s Place has a lot in common with New York City. I don’t mean the fashion, the graffiti or even the undying affection of Woody Allen. I mean the neighborhoods.
You may be familiar with the league of extraordinary gentlemen. If you’re extra-excellent, you might be a member of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. But you’ve gotta be a breed apart to make your home in the Tabby’s Place lobby.
With alarming regularity, cats from New York seem to come to Tabby’s Place with ringworm. It’s been so predictable over the years that we have a conspiracy theory about New Yorkers: they all have ringworm 100% of the time. (We’re onto your secret, Ernie Anastos and Jon Stewart and Sue Simmons and all you TV […]