Maybe you were kind of a recluse before All Of This. (Maybe “kind of” is kind of an understatement.) Maybe you’re scared to death to admit you’re scared to death of everything returning to pre-All Of This. Maybe there are things you’ve learned to love about a global pandemic. It’s all OK. In fact, it’s […]
February was not fully perfect. Cases in point: Something has gone horribly wrong with all the butter in Canada. Elvira is no longer ours for the hugging. Daft Punk has broken up. Additional case in point, pointedly true every month: our collective sanity has broken up (HA HA HA I MADE A FUNNY! “COLLECTIVE SANITY” […]
Whereas: January has ended. Whereas: February is a mini-month, even when it leaps. Resolved: Winter is on the run.
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.
I’m a firm believer that your ship has not sailed without you. If something is vanishing over the horizon, it was not your ship. If you don’t believe me, I’m afraid you don’t know Jack.
When you enter Suite C, you expect to be greeted by a thundering herd. You do not, however, expect to have your heart shot straight into the sky, only to land in a 14-year-old calico’s paws.
We interrupt your regularly-scheduled programming with Breaking News. YOU HIT THE LINDA FUND GOAL.
Tonight, little ghouls and ninja turtles and Groots and Elsas will descend upon your doorstep demanding confections. Next month, the leader of the free world will pardon a turkey. And within the span of seven magical days, we’ve got the pleasures of National Cat Day, All Saints’ Day, All Souls’ Day, and the silencing of […]
People say that Labor Day marks the end of summer. People say that white shoes are not okay after said day. People say a lot of things. But if you’ve had the kind of August our cats have had, you’re still sloshing white espadrilles through the endless summer stew.
It’s been a July to remember. We learned that Kanye West is a blowfish, not a shark. We saw a movie in which a raccoon did the talking for a man who’s a tree. And we rode a rocket of changes with a raft of cats.