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You gave us wonder and splendor. You gave us the return of Bill and Ted (see above). You gave us the feast day of St. Augustine, and the annual pondering as to whether or not his friends called him “Gus.” You gave us an uncommonly high volume of marmalade cats.
Things can get heavy, huh? I’m talking global pandemic blues; tears for our country and world; the continuing crisis shortage of Cherry Zero; and the million million little and large agonies of ordinary life.
We try to keep it real on this blog. That said, if you ever hear me utter the words “I’m keepin’ it real,” please take me gently by the hand and take me to a quiet room where you can apply duct tape to my mouth (preferably glitter duct tape).
Everything old is new again. That isn’t, however, due to it being January. That’s due to the sunrise every morning, and the hope that years can’t hinder…and the cats that keep coming.
Oh December. Just when we’re ready to write you off as a dastardly doer of dastardly deeds, you give us a thrill of hope, and some out-of-season kittens.
If you have been, say, looking for some hot stuff, baby, this evening; perhaps even looking for some hot stuff, baby, tonight; this July has surely pleased you. The news was incendiary. The temperatures were ghost-peppery. And the cats were sizzling.
Supposedly, it’s March hares that are madder than a hatter. But, ’round here, May is the month of mirthful, mind-splattering madness, courtesy of 100,000,000,000 kittens.*
Well, my friends, you wondered, you asked, you e-mailed me, you guessed… …and, amazingly, every single one of you was wrong. Hanz and Franz are not who anyone thought they were.
By now, we shouldn’t have been surprised…but we couldn’t help it. Not another one. Yes, yet another cat had come to Tabby’s Place with the name…(sigh) Oreo. We couldn’t – we wouldn’t – leave him to the fate of being the 900,000th 6th Oreo at Tabby’s Place (and the third simultaneously). Something had to be […]
Every so often, we get to welcome a group of cats who are so much greater than the sum of their parts. The Islip eight. The sweet Southern sixteen. And, now, the Big Apple babies.