Spring-loaded
Spring is eleven days old. Spring folds winter in its apron, like warm bread for later. Spring bears more than a passing resemblance to Tabby’s Place.
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Spring is eleven days old. Spring folds winter in its apron, like warm bread for later. Spring bears more than a passing resemblance to Tabby’s Place.
So here we stand, at the end and the beginning. Cats know that there are only ever beginnings. Cats know many things beyond our reach. But they are gentle, and permit us to believe in figments — endings, the concept of “age appropriate,” the existence of credible vegan cheese — as long as necessary. Perhaps […]
There must be some hidden hoard of helium in the walls of Tabby’s Place. How else to explain the ups and downs of August, our hearts bobbing like airships?
There is a note on my desk reading, “Everything is really, truly OK.” You might say we whisper this over every Tabby’s Place cat. That would be half the story.
T.S. Eliot, who first discovered that every cat has three names, declared April to be “the cruelest month.” Clearly he did not know the names of Mayhem, Crumpet, or Patches.
Oh, goodness. It has been a spell. The last time I opined about the wonders of wonderfully ancient cats was probably in 2016. Maybe a little later, when I wrote a goodbye love-letter to beautiful Bianca. The point is, it has been a spell. And as we often find with spells, it has been…complicated.
If you hang around Tabby’s Place for any length of time, you will unavoidably encounter the word “shmoldie.” Repeatedly. Inescapably. Inexplicably.
I don’t need to spend years with a cat to love her. I don’t even need months. I don’t need weeks. The length of a day becomes a luxury when time is limited. Hours can represent tiny lifetimes if you fill them with meaning. Such was my time with Bianca.
This is a love letter. Most who know me know that I love cats. Those who know me well know that I love old cats. This is a love letter to the old cats.
When it comes to cats, I have a slight tendency to act upon impulses. When it comes to my cat-related impulses, my instincts have not done wrong by me.