Never let anyone tell you that cats are immune to New Year’s resolutions. The moment applications opened to drive the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile, the Tabby’s Place cats instantly, collectively developed goals. Resolved to support them, I have just signed 100 reference letters.
It has begun. But really, it began before any of us began to begin.
As we grow up, our coursework and our cultures can encourage rigidity about many concepts of grammar and, more poignantly, about who people are “supposed to be” and how much we expect everyone and everything to be “normal.”
If cats had opposable thumbs, they would spray squeeze-cheese on every conceivable surface. They would also pick up twigs.
On this blog, we regularly discuss ways in which we aspire to be more like the cats. They are our swamis, our sherpas, our saints and our scholars. Except when they most decidedly are not.
Growing up, there were many things I took for granted. The best music groups were playing rock and roll or New Wave or were either Michael Jackson or Prince; TV dinners were still a thing that everybody ate and nobody understood (what was that dessert thing? Was it supposed to be cherry cobbler?); Harrison Ford […]
We humans are hopelessly “gifted” at flinging our own interpretations and insecurities onto the cats. And so we wring our hands over the overlooked.
True fact: you may, someday, be more renowned than Taylor Swift. Equally true fact: you may labor and love in obscurity for all of your days. Most factual fact: either way, you’re in good company.
We came. We marched fourth. We marched thirty-first, even. And now, we shall April.
Farmers have their markets. Carnies have their carousels. And we, we have our kittens by the quintillions.