This can be a funny time of year. Not funny-ha-ha; funny like Election Day, or hemorrhoids, or ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife.
This was one of those headlines that made me say, I’m really glad there are people devoting their lives to studying this stuff. No, really. No, I’m not being facetious. Really. Go ahead and run your sarcasmometer all over me. I’m clean.
If you have not been hiding inside a tree or running for President, you are aware: Pope Francis is in da house. No, not Tabby’s Place, alas. But, as I type these words, the Pope is a mere hundred miles from Ringoes, NJ, and he’s got us having all kinds of papal fun-cio.
“They” tell me it is now Meteorological Autumn. “They” say kitten season is on the wane. But the great, proverbial “they” don’t know a thing about the endless summer of cats.
It’s August, kittens. August. The month of pterodactyl-sized bugs and Venus-high heat and the first flirtations with fall.