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Whereas: January has ended. Whereas: February is a mini-month, even when it leaps. Resolved: Winter is on the run.
We’ve been mesmerized and gratified and starry-eyed. We’ve been sermonized and sorely tried and over-simplified. But it’s only in this still-young year that Tabby’s Place has been properly Simonized.
It has befallen us. This is not a drill. We simultaneously have a Puddin’ and a Dumpling.
The world is large. The world is broken. The world is softly draped in Cotton.
There are many ways to mask your identity. One of the most effective: surround yourself with idiots who can’t even recognize you undisguised.
I had no idea, when I wrote Puzzle’s piece, that last week would be his last. “Here I am!” he cried, triumphant, to the end. “Yet I live!” he sings now, even now.
Certain cats have always been here. Before the foundation of Tabby’s Place was lain; before life dragged any of us bedraggled humans onto the scene; long before there was even a Ringoes, NJ, they were here. Can you blame us for wanting them to always be here?
Confession: I err on the side of the positive. Perhaps pathologically positive. I will find a way to say something good about vegan cheese, and Cats, and the Department of Motor Vehicles. I will believe there are honest, honorable politicians. I will write, with all my heart, that “Scarywinkle” no longer deserves her nickname.
New Year has passed. New Year has not yet arrived. Ronnie knows how to rock the in-between.