Kittens are kittens, until they are not. It’s for hard-hitting facts like this that you turn to Felis Catus.
They tell me it’s been a “mild” winter. They tell me the globe is warming. They tell me a lot of things. I tell them: bollocks.
It’s every twelve-year-old girl’s dream that The Boy will liken her to his favorite celebrity. I lived the dream…but it took a short-whiskered cat, twenty years later, to make me see just how downright dweamy it all was.
Tabby’s Place has a lot in common with New York City. I don’t mean the fashion, the graffiti or even the undying affection of Woody Allen. I mean the neighborhoods.
Just when you thought girl groups had gone the way of Crystal Pepsi and cassingles, I have good news. The best sistafriends since the Spice Girls have arrived.
booyah \ BOO-yah \, noun ; 1. mighty power 2. eminent magnificence 3. colossal success See: Sluggo, Adam, Virginia, Daisy
Everything old is new again. OK, maybe not Dick Clark. Or Dick Cheney. But everything else.
Take one very orange suite at Tabby’s Place. Happily remove three parts of orangeness; add one part torbie. Suddenly, Suite Marmalade isn’t quite so…well, so marmalade after all.
Funny thing about christening Adoption Room #1 “Suite Marmalade.” That title of great orangeness has turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy…and the more orange things change, the more orange things stay the same.
The surfers can keep their endless summer. I’ll take the endless kitten season any day of the week.