My point, and I do have one, is that most felines avoid pointy things like the proverbial plague. You know, claws, fangs, those sharp bits when the toast is a little burnt – they can really lacerate the tongue and inside cheeks. Also, people who point me the wrong way to the tuna festival are the worst of all and I shall take my revenge – what? no, that wasn’t me, it was my evil twin, Second Last Cat On Mars. Calmer now, pointiness in its place, tuna on the way with Martian Eats: It’s Here or It’s There, or It’s Free.
Did you know that the humble bumbling bee is a threatened species? Well, it is. Read this very interesting article from the Climate Institute about the 20,000 or so bee species on Earth and tell me it isn’t important that we care for Mzzzzz Janice Flybeewaxy’s mental health? You can’t, can you? No, you can’t. Climate change, peeps, it’s a thing.
Psycatry has existed for as long as we’ve needed it, or since the first felis catus psycatus decided it was time to pitch in and try to save human- and other-kind from themselves. It may be a losing battle but as Dr On Mars says, If you have the tuna, I have the time. So let’s get cracking, shall we, and do a little therapeutic dance together. You never know where it may lead. (With any luck, to edible victuals).
On such a momentous day (the 2016 US Pestilential, sorry, Presidential election), perhaps we could all benefit from cooling off down south with our Antarctic friends (and a polar bear visiting from the Arctic), however misguided they may be in the matter of parental origins. Enjoy it now, friends, because the times are truly changing.
The wonderful people at the European Space Agency in Darmstadt, Germany are a bit sad, but hopeful, just as I am hopeful for my shiny (and rather glary) new friend, Schiaparelli lander’s recovery. It’s touch and go, and yes, the chocolate bars helped, but you can never be certain on the Red planet, especially with all these jostling space-o-nauts scurrying around and recklessly stealing tuna pies.
In the meantime, my dearest Earth peeps, keep dreaming of Martian playing fields just as I dream of my feline ancestors who lived a mere furball’s toss up the A5 from Darmstadt, in Frankfurt am Main. Many are the imaginary plates of tuna-wurst helpfully digested with a litre or three of catnip schnaps I’ve shared with my great-great grandparents, Charles Gustav and Margaret (or Meowgaret, as she was known in the family). Ah, those could have been the days but for pesky physics. Dream on.
Didn’t every kitten play cowboys and aliens and lemonade stands and baguettes with their siblings and neighbouring cats of all the lovely varieties under the Martian sun? I know I did.
So it was no surprise at all to find this gaggle of upstanding equines and not-terribly-wild westerners discussing the important thing in life: hats and their place in the synchronised scheme of things.
Also, tuna-flavoured lemonade – the next big thing at your nearest pretentious cafe – move over coconut butter latte frappe-cino with hundreds and thousands, your time is up.