Missing out
We’ve missed stuff, kittens. St. Patrick’s Day was the first casualty, but hot on its green heels were Easter, and Mother’s Day, and now sparkly Memorial Day. We must make sure that missing stuff doesn’t mean missing out.
We’ve missed stuff, kittens. St. Patrick’s Day was the first casualty, but hot on its green heels were Easter, and Mother’s Day, and now sparkly Memorial Day. We must make sure that missing stuff doesn’t mean missing out.
Everything has changed. Nothing has changed. We have a choice in how we’ll be changed.
Tabby’s Place has hosted no fewer than six Oreos, five Kittys, and a full flotilla of Tigers. So, in 2,900 cats and counting, it’s somewhat surprising that we’ve only had a single Rascal.
Do not adjust your monitors. It is not The Holiday Season. This is a legitimate, urgent, bona fide usage of the Emergency Gratuitous Cat Photos System. Circumstances have dictated that we pelt you with pictures immediately. What circumstances? The cats have melted.
Every day is a party at Tabby’s Place. There are shenanigans. There is tomfoolery. There’s enough Party Mix to make a trail to Neptune and back. But one day still stands apart.
The Linda Fund, that is. I rarely ask for donations in this space, but you bet your bouncy-house I’m gonna do so today. And I have help.
In the immortal words of They Might Be Giants, you’re older than you’ve ever been, and now you’re even older. And now you’re even older. And now you’re even older.
That title isn’t exactly accurate. Geriatric throw-downs, plural, endless in plurality, would be more like it.
There are songs about winter, spring and fall. But there are songs about summer. And that’s no coincidence.