Cats do not ford rivers.* Cats do not gas up the car. To Grandmother’s house they do not go. But they travel, my word do they travel.
In one of the greatest books of all time, one of the greatest characters of all time said, “I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” That makes two of us, Anne Shirley. After all, Octobers include cats.
We’re in the stubborn, righteous business of good news around here. Fortunately, we have abundant help from cats and their writerly women and men.
What’s that old chestnut? “Sometimes things have to fall apart so better things can fall together.” Or, in Sable-speak: “Sometimes your tail has to get degloved so your people can get devoted.”
The songwriters of the world can’t quite agree about September. Some want to remember it.* Some are trying to remember it. Some just want to be awakened when it ends. And then there are the cats.
If you have been, say, looking for some hot stuff, baby, this evening; perhaps even looking for some hot stuff, baby, tonight; this July has surely pleased you. The news was incendiary. The temperatures were ghost-peppery. And the cats were sizzling.