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When words are few and hearts raw, God provides. This week, provision came in the form of letters from little people.
Anyone who reads this blog knows that Webster is my sun and stars. Today the light has gone dark.
Good boy. Goooooood boy. You’re my gooboy. Why do we say this to our cats constantly? What makes them so praiseworthy when they’re eating or staring at us or just being happy?
Warning: this will not be my most articulate blog post. Today I beseech you for your prayers for a cat. More precisely, the cat. The cat who puts the twist in my tail, the bend in my ends, the sprinkle on my cupcake. Webster.
Be it known: there are no plain cats. There are mutts and mysteries and marvels and mackerel tabbies. But no plain, boring cats. There are, however, “plain brown tabbies.” And, fortunately for our kitties, there is also a Plain Brown Tabby Toys and Treats.
Recently a local radio station had a 90s weekend. This simultaneously: 1. made me feel exceedingly old, and; 2. afforded the opportunity to be reminded of Shakespeare-worthy lyrics like “not vicious or malicious/just lovely and delicious.” Which brings me to Queen.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of something no eyes should see. And mine ears have heard the yowls of a Community Room divided. Gunther is here, and he’s declared war.
Target has Missoni and Jason Wu. H&M has Versace and Marni. But only Tabby’s Place has Webster.