“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 happens every August. No sooner does the Fireball come down, than my spirits swoop. Fortunately this year, there’s another sort of white-hot flame.
If you’re reading this post, you’re doing July right. Before you can properly celebrate Independence Day, Bastille Day, and Tapioca Pudding Day, you must know how the cats spent all the days of June.