In our relative isolation, there is no escape from the news, viral invaders, responsibility, or ourselves. We are somewhat alone, but never alone enough in the right ways.
I miss Max. There is zero chance that I’m the only one who feels this way. (Editor’s note: Accurate. — A.H.)
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.
Love comes in all shapes, sizes, colors, vectors, and ways. Love can grow slowly, strengthening with time and togetherness. Love can creep up on us like a cat on the prowl, knocking us off our feet, taking our breath away, and leaving us wondering what hit us after it escapes out grasp.
If you hang around Tabby’s Place for any length of time, you will unavoidably encounter the word “shmoldie.” Repeatedly. Inescapably. Inexplicably.
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.
From dust we came, and to dust we shall return. That’s the merry message of Ash Wednesday.
Some days this job brings us very close to something very sacred. Correction: that occurs every day. Some days we’re just temporarily unclouded enough to see it.
It’s been a memorable year for a certain orange tabby and his compassionate press agent. Today, Simba and Tara ring out 2017 with high hopes…and, in Simba’s case, some unfortunate fingernail fashion.