Oh August, sweet little August, you are young yet, and tender. Yet as you grow, we have a request for you. On behalf of every individual of every species on every continent, subcontinent and islet: please be kind.
If any year ever needed a reboot, it’s this one. You all know the litany of improbables and predictables that have descended upon us with a vengeance. It would be great if 2020 were like a game of kickball. If enough of the players yell, “DO-OVER!”, then there’s a do-over. Whatever happened is voided, nullified, […]
It would not interest you why I was Googling “weird Cajun expressions.” True fact: this was related to a certain Executive Director of my acquaintance who shall remain unnamed to protect the strange, but whose name rhymes with “Ronathan.”
We’ve done it, kittens. We’ve danced right off the edge of a decade.
On this 28th day of November, 2019 AD, in Ringoes, New Jersey, United States, Planet Earth, there’s a lot to be worried about. There’s a lot to be angry about. There’s a lot to be weepy about. But there is so much more more more to be grateful for.
These are the times that call for parchment and inkwells. These are the hours for which we wait. These are the days of female cats in Suite FIV.
Do not adjust your monitors. It is not The Holiday Season. This is a legitimate, urgent, bona fide usage of the Emergency Gratuitous Cat Photos System. Circumstances have dictated that we pelt you with pictures immediately. What circumstances? The cats have melted.
Don’t call it a misspelling. It’s a poet’s prerogative to play with language like a Slinky.
Fact: the cats most likely to get FIV are unneutered, rambling, gambling males. Fact: most residents of Suite FIV at Tabby’s Place are now-neutered, reformed rambling, gambling males.
Tinseltown can keep its hostless hullabaloo and self-congratulatory shindigs. We don’t need no stinkin’ Oscars. We have Oscar.