Sing to me, oh resplendent reader. What are the lyrics running like children through your mind-yard today? Are you sure you meant to open the fence?
For the past 6 months, many of us have spent an inordinate amount of time wearing out our sofa cushions. Recent reprieve notwithstanding, pajamas are getting threadbare, and sourdough is so 2 months ago.
Joe Piscopo, local, comedian, actor, portrayer of a lounge lizard. Bill Murray, not at all local, comedian, actor, portrayer of a lounge lizard. Lounge lizards. Crooners. Performers. Bar acts.
When we are afraid, may we be turned into love. When we are excruciatingly squirrelly, may we be turned into love. When the urge to dance to Pitbull’s song about coronavirus overcomes us,* may we be turned into love.
All cats are great. All cats are good. Comparison is the thief of joy. But sometimes, dangit, there truly can only be one.
Someone decided that today is sad. Someone is decisively wrong.
Tabby’s Place may or may not have a Diabetic Mafia.* The Diabetic Mafia may or may not have a Don…na.
Oh, frisky feisty January. You are longer than your 31 days, starting with fireworks and ending with “finally!” You are the time for cold crunch under our feet and Christmas leftovers gone crusty. You are the month of few holidays and generally muted merriment. But those who live among cats have all the frisk and […]
We live in an age of indignation. Much of it is necessary. But much of it is just noxious.
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.