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?
Last night, you may have heard two seventy-year-olds yelling at each other, followed by their under-yellers yelling about the yelling. We’re not going to debate those debates here. But we do have issues to discuss.
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.
If you have not been hiding inside a tree or running for President, you are aware: Pope Francis is in da house. No, not Tabby’s Place, alas. But, as I type these words, the Pope is a mere hundred miles from Ringoes, NJ, and he’s got us having all kinds of papal fun-cio.
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:
The Pink Moon is coming. The crocuses are about to break winter’s chains. And I have exciting news for you, in quadruplicate.
Tabby’s Place has a lot in common with New York City. I don’t mean the fashion, the graffiti or even the undying affection of Woody Allen. I mean the neighborhoods.
Chickens are best left uncounted until they’re hatched. Gold medals are best left un-boasted-of until they’re swinging around your neck. Adoptions are best left unblogged until they’re official.
It may be the third-most-asked question at Tabby’s Place. Hot on the heels of “Don’t they ever fight?” and “Where do you come up with all the names?”, people regularly ask: “Aren’t orange cats always male?”
Laurel and Hardy used to lament getting into “another fine mess.” The great wordsmith of our time, Ke$ha, sings of being a “filthy hot mess.” And, this week, one of the awesomest AwesomeAdopters since Mrs. TwinkieCupcake has made a major mess of the social network in Suite A.