To err
Any self-respecting feline will tell you: cats do not err. They do surprise you. They do make last-minute course corrections. But they do not make mistakes. N-O-N, no.
Any self-respecting feline will tell you: cats do not err. They do surprise you. They do make last-minute course corrections. But they do not make mistakes. N-O-N, no.
Today marks the eve of Lent, that serious season when folks make a spiritual practice of fasting from such things as injustice and selfishness and chocolate and Facebook. But before all that introspective stuff, folks get fat, Tuesday-style. So, of course, do cats.
They say that, on Christmas Eve at midnight, the animals talk. They also say that putting crunchy peanut butter in someone else’s sandwich is not a war crime. They say that the Elf on the Shelf is not absolutely terrifying. They say a lot of things.
When New Jersey feels hotter than Death Valley, it’s best to let the cats handle the blog.
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.
Y’all may have heard that British succession rights changed recently. But one royal rule hasn’t changed, isn’t changing, and ain’t gonna change even if you sit up and beg for buttermilk: there’s only one Queen in Suite B.
The following events take place between 10:30 am Saturday and 1:30 pm Tuesday. Consider this the Tabby’s Place version of an episode of 24…except, instead of Kiefer Sutherland and civilization-threatening threats, it’s 100 cats and a really epic power outage.
Old Tabby’s Place lore is shrouded in mystery, myth and cat hair. Why did the cats’ identification numbers start at 10, not 0? Just how many cats named Oreo have been here over the years? And how did the suites get their names?
It doesn’t get much worse than a world of ”always winter, never Christmas.” On the other hand, it doesn’t get much better than a world of all Winter, all the time.