We always buy our cats some catnip and a toy for Christmas. They almost always get more enjoyment from leftover wrapping paper and empty boxes. There’s probably a lesson on consumerism here.
Posts Tagged ‘cat’
My cat will risk its very life among nieces and nephews running wild just to get some sun through a window. It’s like every cat is Superman desperately trying to be recharged by the sun’s rays. At least, I wish my cat had super powers.
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Anyone with a cat has experience with this phenomenon. Why do they do it? I assume cats’ brains are uniquely wired so they’re in constant flux between short and long-term memory. How else could one explain forgetting taped episodes of Pawn Stars? Well, probably many ways.
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Some nights my cat goes through all three of these stages. Most of the time, however, how my cat sleeps on me is a pretty good indication of how it feels that particular night. The third panel title pretty much sums up how we both feel with that positioning. Cats are not kind bed buddies.
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Women tend to be big fans of animals, until they start eating one another. I don’t blame them for this, as the animals I eat I don’t want to consider all the animals they ate and the animals their food ate, etc. It’s like an HIV ad for vegans.
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I feel sorry for retail employees. No, it’s not the poor wages or thankless work that garners my sympathy. I feel bad for all the customers they have to deal with. I have to interact with these people for short random encounters. They have to deal with them all day. I doubt most customers are this way, but I assume it’s enough.
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I actually own a cat that resembles a lemur. There’s not much point to you knowing that, except I think I could potentially pass it off as one to a really stupid person. I think doing the opposite might also be possible. Also, lemurs are cute and this is kind of a mean comic since we never actually show you that cuteness. We’re jerks like that.
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My brother used to have a cat that slept like this, which seemed to invite rubbing its belly. However, whenever someone did the cat would leap up and chase them through the house slashing with its claws. You might think that sounds like one crazy cat, but then you’re probably a dog person and don’t realize all cats secretly want to do so.
Now, I own two cats. They’re very dear to me. They’re also evil—at a level unimaginable to most mortals. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in years, always with one eye open.
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Ever noticed when watching old cartoons that a good half of them are about the speech impediments of animals? I’ve got to be honest, I’d be impressed if my cat could talk period, regardless if it could roll its Rs properly. Perhaps my standards are too low.
If it were something more valid, like perhaps an incontinent cat, then I could see mocking them. That my friends is a valid reason to criticize an animal. But stuttering or slurred speech? Honestly, we should be pledging these animals into fraternities, not ridiculing them from afar.
Maybe in a politically correct age where we can no longer mock the minority groups asking for it (you had it coming transsexual midgets), animals have become our only refuge. While inappropriate to point and laugh at the fat man on the street, it is perfectly acceptable to enjoy a Garfield strip. Oh look, he’s gorging himself on food–again. This isn’t humor, but a cry for help.
But let him burn. Let all the cartoon animals burn. Their suspicious lack of opposable thumbs and crudely drawn mannerisms are asking for it. They crave our mockery. Fat, lazy, stupid stutters that they are.
I’m sitting here watching my cats fight one another. Not actually fight, like in a manner that would make Michael Vick blush with pride, but sissy slap at one another. Since both cats arrived declawed from the pound, this equals good, clean, safe fun for all involved. Except maybe the cats.
Having pets makes you realize that Pokemon games are just this side of electronic cockfighting. A generation of kids are growing up believing the best use for newly discovered species is to cram them in a cage and, at the appropriate time, release them to fight other rare creatures. This was the plot of one of the Beastmaster films, but hardly seems a valid life lesson.
Still, I’m not one to intervene into the cats’ squabbles. It’s when considering this I wonder if I’m a god? Not the God (no lightning strikes, please), but a god–to my cats at least. I’m a benevolent being that provides them with food, water, shelter, and can magically heal many of their ailments with my magic elixirs ($49.99 from my friendly neighborhood veterinarian). I often whisk them up from the ground and transport them out of harm’s way, and my voice bellows from the heavens both praising and chastising them.
Of course, to really be a god I would need to have worshipers, and I’m fairly sure that’s exactly what my cats are doing right now. One is sniffing around my foot while the other forces its way into my lap. I’d cuddle up in God’s lap, and I’m not entirely unsure that what I do each Sunday isn’t tickling His toes. Sure, the praise into groveling might not seem equal between my cats to me to God, but I’d argue that’s all perspective. For all we know we sound like a bunch of hairy beasts begging for mushy sustenance to the Almighty. Maybe when He drops a few apples onto that deserted island you find yourself shipwrecked on he also walks away holding one hand to His nose before throwing the empty package in the trash can. God or no god, I am not getting that left over cat food all over my hands.
Is there a point to this rambling? Sure, why not? I think we far too often presume to know the inner workings of the minds of creatures both greater and smaller than ourselves. This usually results in us forcing our own opinions, wants, and even needs upon their actions. That doesn’t sound very benevolent to me. That’s not the kind of god I want to be.
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