Oh August, sweet little August, you are young yet, and tender. Yet as you grow, we have a request for you. On behalf of every individual of every species on every continent, subcontinent and islet: please be kind.
We try to keep it real on this blog. That said, if you ever hear me utter the words “I’m keepin’ it real,” please take me gently by the hand and take me to a quiet room where you can apply duct tape to my mouth (preferably glitter duct tape).
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.
One of the best things about loving the cats is letting them link our hearts with other cat-smitten human beans. Case in point: the luminous Karen. I’ve been blessed to develop a special friendship with this feline-adorer, and I stand in awe of her huge love for the cats. Karen has always championed the overlooked, […]
It’s no secret that we’re in the presence of greatness at Tabby’s Place. Some folks call Tashi “the little Prince,” and Peachy is (obviously) in the highest echelon of royalty. But, with a few recent arrivals, we would seem to have a full royal court. Windsor’s got nothing on Tabby’s Place.
Tabby’s Place is far enough from the border that we’re safe from Montezuma’s revenge. We don’t feed the cats purple yam ice cream or pangolin brains. And there’s no need to get immunized against dysentery before visiting Ringoes, NJ. Despite all of this, our newcomers are still prone to the bane of travelers everywhere: tummy troubles.