I’m not gonna try to drizzle this with syrup, kittens. We’ve been battered, beaten and boxed about the ears this month.
The equation always holds, but that never makes it feel right: The longer you’ve loved someone, the larger “goodbye” looms.
This week in the U.S., we honor those who served. This week every second of every hour of every day at Tabby’s Place, we honor those who serve are served.
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.
The cats remind us that we are not alone. For every oddity and instance of ookiness, there’s a comrade in arms to share your strangeness.
If you’ve not yet done your holiday shopping, allow me to extend my condolences. The malls this week will be only slightly less tragic and messy than The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, without the benefit of Gordon Lightfoot. But where there are Tabby’s Place cats, there’s hope.
It amazes me how, often, a cat who lived as the ultimate wallflower in a suite of 17 rowdy roomies will bloom into a quirky, gregarious creature once you put her in a smaller pad. No kitty displays this phenomenon better than our Raja.