It was bitterly cold. There was a giant, red, danger-triangle of warning drawn over the entire state.
You come to this venerable blog with the big questions: Why not “Hannah”? Why not, Hannah? Why not Hannah?
Happy New Year, kittens. Let us make a pact, today, while we still have confetti in our whiskers and something called “egg nog” in our fridges. (How did it get there? Who invented it? Why have we never had a Tabby’s Place cat named Nog? I digress.) Here’s the plan: we will not permit this […]
November arrives full of “alls.” Yesterday was All Saints Day. (The cats celebrated themselves appropriately.) Today is All Souls Day. (The cats snickered “bless your soul” at us inappropriately.) And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, we’re lavished with the luscious “alls” of 125 Tabby’s Place residents in all their muchness.
The songwriters of the world can’t quite agree about September. Some want to remember it.* Some are trying to remember it. Some just want to be awakened when it ends. And then there are the cats.
If you have been, say, looking for some hot stuff, baby, this evening; perhaps even looking for some hot stuff, baby, tonight; this July has surely pleased you. The news was incendiary. The temperatures were ghost-peppery. And the cats were sizzling.
This can be a funny time of year. Not funny-ha-ha; funny like Election Day, or hemorrhoids, or ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife.
This is a wild, woolly world. We’ve got global goals and global griefs. We’ve got water on Mars and Macklemore back on the charts. Fortunately, we’ve also got gobs of cat news.