Epilogues: May 2014
If you like to sing-a, say, about: 1. The moon-a 2. The June-a and/or 3. The spring-a, you are in luck. May has gone, The June-a has come, and it brings you cat tidings.
Marionettes
It may have occurred to you at some point in time: Hot dang, I am in control! Maybe all the bills were freshly paid. You’d just brokered peace in the Middle East. Or perhaps you’d just purchased a 56-roll Family Pak of toilet paper.* But all it takes is a cat to remind you: you […]
Epilogues: April
Tra-la… It’s May, which means spring is about to get real. We’re talking dogwoods. Tulips. Hydrangeas. And kittens. Baby kittens. Bring on the brain-liquefying, IQ-annihilating powers of kittens and their nuclear cuteness.
Epilogues: March 2014
We did it, kittens. We marched forth. We outlasted the year that seemed like always winter and never Christmas. And now, Aslan is on the move. Now, wild dingoes couldn’t keep us from blooming.
Epilogues: February 2014
Sometimes 28 days can feel like the longest month of the year. This was no ordinary February.
Epilogues: November 2013
Mashed taters: eaten. Great uncles and aunties: kissed. November: accomplished.
No Tannenbaum
There was a time when Tabby’s Place had a full-size Christmas tree in our lobby, all aglitter with sparkly bits and bobs and luminous light. There was also a time when pterodactyls soared above the earth. And then came the Community Cats.
The A team
How much can change in a group of friends before the bonds start to break down? How much can each member of a group grow before they begin to grow apart? These are the questions that tax sitcoms, soap operas, and residents of Suite A.
The united suites
If Tabby’s Place is a sovereign nation, the cat suites are more like independent republics than states. There is no Congress at Tabby’s Place. We are bereft of representative feline government. Suite B cats stay within the bounds of Suite B, and Suite A cats patrol the borders of Suite A, and never the twain […]
Mr. Blue Skies
Ever have a morning when the clock radio wakes you up to MacArthur Park,* the toast is burnt, and you haven’t done laundry in so long you have to wear the emergency backup underwear? Cats don’t. Patrick most assuredly doesn’t.