Taylor is in complete command of his littleness. Taylor does not need to command kingdoms and chariots and flying saucers. Taylor does not need to make the loudest cannonball in the pool. Taylor does not need to be the Access Hollywood cat, the Broadway cat, off doing Big Things and making a Big Impact. Taylor’s face has never been cupped by an adopter squealing “Thou art my Dream MooshMuffin!”īut Taylor’s calling is clear, because you are here. Taylor’s pancreas is squonky, and his history is hiccuppy. Taylor does not need to be elegant for this task. Taylor stands tall by going small, shapeshifting like a sausage (also acceptable muffin-building material) until he’s outfitted for the heart in front of him. Taylor descends to dote on you, dollop you with devotion, and drop all potential deeds of derring-do, just to be with you. Taylor would like to demonstrate that an anchovy muffin would fit in his maw like the moon in the sky.īut, even muffinless, you fit into Taylor Ham’s day. Taylor fits in a lap like a muffin in a teacup. Taylor can cruise the ramps without crashing like a Chevrolet through cardboard. Taylor can fit through the flaps between suite and solarium. Taylor Ham is, by ordinary units of measurement, an average cat.
It’s a dance party whose entrance fee is a round of limbo, lined by a Soul Train of cats chanting, “how low can you go?” It’s a starfield seen only by the shortest shortcakes.
Low enough to rise above, light enough to take oneself unseriously. If Tabby’s Place is the portal to another universe, it’s a realm accessed only by the low and the light: low to the ground, light on their feet. Also, “average” is an invalid adjective when one is speaking of cats.)Īccordingly, 9″ is the height of an average cat door. (Correction: “Stratosphere” is the height of an average cat in lengths of “ego,” their preferred unit of measurement. You might say it’s somewhere in the ballpark of 9″ high.įor reference, this is 6.5 Oreos, 1/8th of a Jimmy Fallon, or the height of an average cat.
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