The other day, my hubby and I returned my mom to my sister’s house, her primary residence. We’re a quaranteam, so we’re sharing. It works out nicely for everyone: varied household dynamics, changes in company, someone else to look at (or not), and different walls for my mom.
When I first met Samantha, it was because another volunteer asked me to. The poor kitty was frightened, cowering in an open crate, and new to the community room. She needed friends, and it wasn’t difficult to convince her that scratches and cooing are nice.
In the beginning (please, don’t be literal), Sammy had her Max. Then, she didn’t. Time elapsed.
Part of my job is to make appointment reminder phone calls. Recently, I had a rough conversation with someone who couldn’t tell the difference between 3 disparate groups of people. (Oh, no. Here we go.)
Summer is serious business. Its questions are timeless: Whatever happened to Frozfruit? Will the song of the summer be “Juice,” “Sucker” or “Old Town Road”? Where have all the kittens gone?
It is universally known that Max was a king among cats. So it’s only right that it takes a full battalion of “normal” felines to replace him.
We interrupt your regularly-scheduled programming with Breaking News. YOU HIT THE LINDA FUND GOAL.
Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon? If so, heaven help you, and here’s a Band-Aid.
There’s no beating around this bristly, brutal bush. August 2018 dealt some awfulness in extremis at Tabby’s Place.