If any year ever needed a reboot, it’s this one. You all know the litany of improbables and predictables that have descended upon us with a vengeance. It would be great if 2020 were like a game of kickball. If enough of the players yell, “DO-OVER!”, then there’s a do-over. Whatever happened is voided, nullified, […]
On this 28th day of November, 2019 AD, in Ringoes, New Jersey, United States, Planet Earth, there’s a lot to be worried about. There’s a lot to be angry about. There’s a lot to be weepy about. But there is so much more more more to be grateful for.
These are the times that call for parchment and inkwells. These are the hours for which we wait. These are the days of female cats in Suite FIV.
Don’t call it a misspelling. It’s a poet’s prerogative to play with language like a Slinky.
Fact: the cats most likely to get FIV are unneutered, rambling, gambling males. Fact: most residents of Suite FIV at Tabby’s Place are now-neutered, reformed rambling, gambling males.
Good things happen in June. Good things also happen in eleven other months, but there’s something about June that just makes you want to…sing-a. Especially when it starts on a Friday, and you’re alive, and you live in a world in which cats exist.
“It’s gonna be May.” – Justin Timberlake “It already is.” – Angela Hartley and 120 cats
We talk about Life more than usual this time of year. Perhaps it’s because we need it so desperately, weary of brown fields and whipping cold. Maybe it’s because Life itself starts getting fidgety and feisty around us, little yellow buds singing protest songs at a grim sky.
What did February brew for you, kittens? Was it the seasonal equivalent of honey-lemon tea, accented with a pink marshmallow heart? Or was it a colander of questionably-colored snow?
Wait. Did we not just epp a log? We did. But that’s because I’m a dunderhead. So dance around in your dungarees, you January-jousting kittens; it’s time for another month in review.