I intended this to be a happy-clappy post about adopted Tabby’s Place veterans. I anticipated making cracks about Doritos-flavored Mountain Dew and Oreo Churros. But once again, we’re betwixt and between the quick and the dead. Grizzled, glorious Sylvia has left this earth.
Friends, homies and countrymen, today I am pleased to introduce you to a volunteer of many marvels. Feast your hearts on the prose and passions of one fabulous Florie:
It’s been a July to remember. We learned that Kanye West is a blowfish, not a shark. We saw a movie in which a raccoon did the talking for a man who’s a tree. And we rode a rocket of changes with a raft of cats.
If you like to sing-a, say, about: 1. The moon-a 2. The June-a and/or 3. The spring-a, you are in luck. May has gone, The June-a has come, and it brings you cat tidings.
Tra-la… It’s May, which means spring is about to get real. We’re talking dogwoods. Tulips. Hydrangeas. And kittens. Baby kittens. Bring on the brain-liquefying, IQ-annihilating powers of kittens and their nuclear cuteness.
Be it known: if you spend any amount of time at Tabby’s Place, you will step in it. You will step in the vomit. You will step in the excrement. And, in more ways than one, you will step in The Wet.