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.
Quite a lot happened this week in history. The Feast Day of St. Francis. The Battle of Largs. The births of Gandhi and Vaclav Havel and Sting. The 14th anniversary of Tabby’s Place.
There are weeks that power your perseverance, and weeks that push your fist higher and higher into the restless sky. The start of September in Ringoes, NJ was one of the latter. We lost Meatball. We lost Tyke. And I’m not ashamed to report that we lost our patience with reality.
March, baby, we need to talk. That lion-and-lamb stuff is an understatement when it comes to you. Good heavens to Murgatroyd, did you ever march forth.
In between kissing Bucca’s head and raising money for Bucca all the cats, I thought some existential thoughts this week. These were sparked by adventures in diabetes.
This was one of those headlines that made me say, I’m really glad there are people devoting their lives to studying this stuff. No, really. No, I’m not being facetious. Really. Go ahead and run your sarcasmometer all over me. I’m clean.
If you have not been hiding inside a tree or running for President, you are aware: Pope Francis is in da house. No, not Tabby’s Place, alas. But, as I type these words, the Pope is a mere hundred miles from Ringoes, NJ, and he’s got us having all kinds of papal fun-cio.
This may sound scandalous, but it’s a fact: At Tabby’s Place, we regularly see cats do Bad Things.
There is so much news exploding at Tabby’s Place today, you’d think it was the Fourth of July. It isn’t. It’s better.
If you’re going to visit Suite C at Tabby’s Place, it’s probably best to bring your own tent. It’s loud and messy and magical in there, and the last thing you want is to have to leave early.