by TEJ | Apr 7, 2023 | Fun and Leisure Humor
Cats are the most popular pet in most western countries. That’s because they’re furry, extremely cute, make a soothing purring sound, and help their owners procrastinate whenever they jump on our laps. Good kitty. Daddy didn’t want to defrost the fridge anyway. I’d rather pat you instead.
Cats living with humans dates back over 10,000 years. But in all that time, there is not a single documented case of a cat ever thanking its human cohabitant. In ancient Egypt, people worshipped cats as gods. To this day, that’s still how most cats see themselves.
Throughout history, cats have served many valuable functions for their owners. In many early civilizations, as cats became domesticated, they were kept as a means of chasing away snakes and killing mice and other rodents in order to protect the grains in storage.
It is speculated that cats were once used to herd sheep and cattle. However, historians say this practice was believed only to be associated with one group of people in medieval Wales. Apparently this terribly in-bred population suffered from a genetic defect in which everybody was severely near-sighted, and thus they mistook cats for dogs. Before long, this society appears to have died off, most likely from widespread starvation – because they kept losing their food supply of sheep and cattle. It turns out even back in the 700s, cats were terrible at herding. Many generations later, the entire tribe was posthumously given the Darwin Award.
In more recent times, cats have been adopted into families as household pets – mostly by lazy couples who preferred cats over dogs because they’ve concluded that getting up at 5am on a December morning to walk the dog and scoop up its poop on a frozen sidewalk was way too much work.
Throughout my marriage, we’ve owned cats as pets, typically two or three at a time. Don’t worry, I never became one of those “crazy cat people” with a dozen cats – because my wife would never agree to this. We love our cats dearly, but over the years, we’ve had to replace several living room chairs and many blown glass vases, thanks to our cats’ hardwired obsession with scratching furniture and knocking onto the floor anything on a counter that looked expensive.
In recent years, I have found yet another extremely useful function for our three cats, Buddy, Zippy, and Monster: I frequently use them to get out of having to help my wife with chores. That’s because we have a tacit agreement: Whenever one of us is lying on the couch, and there’s a cat on our lap, we mustn’t disturb our furry friend from their peaceful slumber.
As a result, whenever a cat is looking adorably cute, lounging comfortably on my lap, I get an immediate hall pass to avoid helping my wife with any chores until my fuzzy feline decides it’s time to move on to something more fascinating – like a nearby twist tie or a piece of lint. And our giant moose of a cat Buddy has been known to park himself on my lap for hours at a time, all but guaranteeing I won’t have to lift a finger for the rest of the afternoon.
This is our cat named Buddy. He’s huge. And he loves nothing more than to park himself on my lap and stay – usually within 30 seconds of when I was planning to get up to make myself a snack.
This system has been working wonderfully for me. For example, let’s say my wife could use a little help in the kitchen cooking dinner. As she’s getting close to the point where I anticipate she’ll likely be asking for my assistance, I make sure to grab say, Monster, park him on my lap and pat him until he settles in for a nice long nap. “Hey, honey, I would totally help peel the potatoes, but I’m stuck. I have a cat on my lap.” Chore averted.
But be careful not to abuse this strategy. A few years ago, during the peak of the pandemic, I was working from home. My boss asked me for my quarterly sales forecast. I tried to explain that I was not ready to present it at our Zoom meeting because there had been a cat on my lap for the previous two hours.
I figured my boss would understand. Turns out she had no sympathy for my predicament. I made the mistake of working for someone who was a dog person. (It’s my fault for not asking her about this during my job interview.) She had this crazy notion that focusing on my job during work hours took priority over patting kitties. Such a heartless person. I would have submitted a formal harassment claim to the HR department but I couldn’t – because I still had a cat on my lap – and our small company did not have an HR department.
I have been able to avoid raking the leaves, doing laundry, and power-washing the driveway for weeks at a time, thanks to this “Cat On My Lap” (COML) addendum to our marriage vows. But lately, our cat Zippy has been gravitating more to my wife’s lap than mine, thus ruining the balance of cat lap time that had been disproportionately favoring me. My wife is deliberately attempting to turn the tables by claiming “I’d be happy to help you with the gardening, but as you can clearly see, Zippy is parked on my lap.”
As far back as 2,500 years ago, in ancient Egypt, cats were revered. Here is a piece of funerary fabric depicting a cat trying to decide which priceless urn to knock over. It ultimately chose the one on the right.
Our COML agreement worked perfectly when Zippy preferred my lap to my wife’s. But lately he’s turned into a traitor. Even Buddy – who ALWAYS prefers me – has taken to preferring my wife over me for cuddle time. What’s going on??!! My wife has nefariously used this technique to get me to cook dinner three nights in a row – and clean the BBQ grill. So unfair. I think she’s bribing the cats, but I have yet to catch her in the act.
This has to stop. I’m going to start spraying all my wife’s clothing with a dog fur cologne. (I wonder if Amazon has this in stock.) Hopefully, they’ll start to view her with suspicion or even terror and return to choosing my lap over hers, thus restoring order to the cat universe.
I know, it sounds extreme. But when it comes to my relaxation and my desire to avoid helping out around the house, sometimes a husband has to take drastic measures.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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by TEJ | May 30, 2022 | Lifestyles humor
It’s no secret that my wife and I are crazy about cats. We’ve fostered dozens of kittens and adult cats over the years. We currently belong to three (formerly) male cats who were all once fosters: Zippy, Buddy, and our newest family member, Monster. Some readers may even recall that Zippy once authored a tell-all book trashing me. But we settled out of court for an undisclosed amount.
We pet owners sure do love our furry companions. Many people, like my good friend and fellow humor writer Dorothy Rosby, even talk to them on a regular basis.
And sure, I talk to my cats too. Who doesn’t talk to their cat? (Unless they are one of those freakishly ugly hairless sphynx breeds – I just don’t trust them.)
When I talk to my cats, it’s always about important things, like whether my Seattle Seahawks should trade their quarterback Russell Wilson for a pair of first round draft picks or reminding them to make the bed after I get up in the morning or asking them if there’s anything good on TV. I can’t say with 100% certainty that they always understand what I’m saying, but they never ask clarifying questions, so I presume they’re tracking with me.
Cats are a lot smarter than most people think. One clever cat lover even wrote a book called Why Cats Paint. It was so successful that I plan to rip off his idea and pump out a series of similar books, including Why Cats Cook, Why Cats Bowl, and Why Cats Don’t Particularly Care About Particle Physics.
Some people wonder whether cats actually love us back. I can say with confidence that Zippy and Buddy love me. The verdict’s still out on Monster, ever since I recently put him in the laundry room for two days for peeing on the bed. He holds onto grudges.
I truly adore our cats, even though they almost never offer to help with the chores. That said, any time I put new sheets on the bed, Zippy is always eager to help – which he does by jumping up on the bed (right before I put down the fitted sheet) and lying there for hours under all the new warm sheets and blankets. Even when one of them misbehaves, I can’t stay mad at them. I even forgave Buddy the time he leapt up on my laptop keyboard and somehow instantly managed to delete a humor article I’d been laboring on for three hours but had failed to save. But did he ever apologize? Sadly, no.
I like to give our cats several nicknames. For example, I have periodically called Monster Pumpkin, Cuddles, Squawker, BumpelRumpinface, and most recently, The Evil One Who Must Be Destroyed. But they always seem to respond to my call, regardless what name I call them (so long as I come bearing treats).
I also like to tell jokes to my cats. But when it comes to humor, they are a tough audience. Whenever I read them portions of my latest column, they rarely chuckle or even smirk. Typically they just stare at me until they realize I don’t have any treats, then walk away – so, pretty much the same response I get from my wife.
Millions of cat owners routinely proclaim their affection for their furry friends by snuggling with them and telling them how much they love them. Like I said, I do that too. But I also sing to my cats – with original lyrics I make up. That said, I’ve never been able to come up with a song lyric that rhymes with “Monster.” I’m seriously considering changing his name to Ned or Brad, both of which are much easier to rhyme.
At left: Our tuxedo cat Buddy fitfully trying to sleep. Notice how stressed out he appears. My guess is he’s worried about when he’s going to be fed next. At right: Buddy after I just sang him a song I wrote about bunnies. See how totally Zen he is. Buddy finds my music very soothing.
My songs cover a wide variety of timely topics from “I can’t see my computer monitor with you sitting there” to “Would you like to go bungee jumping with me tomorrow” to “how’d you get so fat – did you eat your brother?” – all in perfect rhyme but far from perfect pitch. I’m pretty sure my wife enjoys when I break out in song for our cats because whenever I start up, she immediately goes to another room (no doubt for better acoustics).
Here is a song I just sang to Buddy, while he was curled up on my lap (sung to the show tune, Where is Love, from the movie Oliver):
Where-ere-ere-ere-ere is Bud?
Where-ere-ere-ere-ere is Bud?
Is he in a tree? Or the bottom of the sea
All covered up in mud?
Catchy, I agree. Or this one I recently composed for Zippy (sung to the tune of Hey, Paula by the singers Paul and Paula):
Hey, Hey, Zippy, I see you giving me a glance
Hey, Hey, Zippy, now you have jumped up on my pants
I wish you wouldn’t leave
All of your fur on my pant sleeve
Hey, Zippy, don’t make me ship you to France
I’m thinking of making an album called Pet Sounds (I sure hope nobody else has used that name yet). Oh sure, you may think I’m a bit quirky since I like to sing to my cats. I mostly croon Broadway show tunes, pop songs, and the occasional Gregorian chant. It’s not like I would ever sing them opera arias because that would be ridiculous.
Trust me, I’m not obsessed with our cats. I would never dress them up in silly costumes. And I would never install one of those giant cat walls that go around half the living room for them to climb up on – unless my wife changes her mind about that.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2022.
by TEJ | Nov 17, 2019 | Fun and Leisure Humor
My wife and I foster kittens several times a year. Here are some of our recent guests. I know, they all look so adorable. Don’t be fooled. They’re non-stop eating, pooping machines that will turn your house into utter chaos, or as my wife calls it, “happy pandemonium.”
My wife and I run a cat house. We take in girls – and boys – who were living on the streets and require them to do tricks in exchange for room and board. We’re not proud of this. But we can’t help ourselves. Oh, it’s not what you think. No, we’re not running a brothel. Heavens, No! My wife always reminds me, “We’re never doing that again!”
What I meant was that we rent cats. Okay, some people might call it “fostering.” We take in orphaned kittens and we feed them, cuddle them, and teach them tricks like how to chase a string. Our guests stay about five weeks, after which, having (temporarily) satisfied our craving, we send them back to the local animal shelter. But it is an addiction, and withdrawal is no laughing matter. So, after a couple months, we give in and get another fix of furry toddlers.
Our two adult cats, Zippy and Buddy (former fosters themselves), graciously allow us to invite these occasional intruders. I want to keep them all, but my wife says zoning laws prohibit more than two permanent feline residents per household. Apparently, any more than that would cause a level of chaos and destruction that might threaten world peace – not to mention our marriage.
Make no mistake, my wife likes cats – a lot! If she and I were on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean with Zippy and Buddy, and a big wave washed our cats and me overboard, and she could only save two of us – let’s just say, my wife would probably be remarried by now.
While she likes cats, my darling wife absolutely ADORES KITTENS! That’s why she likes to rent, I mean foster them. Our job as a foster family is to play with the kitties and get them used to humans, so that I can fall in love with them and get my heart torn out when they inevitably journey back to the shelter to find permanent homes.
I’ll be the first to admit, fostering kittens is a lot of fun. But it’s also a lot of work. That’s why my wife and I divide up the tasks evenly. I’m responsible for feeding, scooping the litter, replacing said litter, cleaning the ubiquitous poop skid marks off the floor, sweeping the strewn litter bits, and picking up countless bits of shredded paper the kitties create. The above tasks need to be done roughly every 30 minutes. My wife willingly shoulders the arduous chores of patting and nuzzling the kittens and posting adorable photos of them on Facebook.
If I may, I would like to circle back to the part about feeding and scooping. The kittens are often only two weeks old when we receive them. Sometimes they are so tiny we must bottle feed them. But once they can consume solid food (around three weeks), their appetites are insatiable. A litter of six kittens can easily go through eight cans of moist cat food and three cups of dry food in a day. But they poop out roughly five times the volume they consume – something scientists have never been able to explain. With any luck, by the time they are ready to leave us, most of the kittens know how to dutifully excrete their poop within a foot of the litter box.
Our temporary house guests typically overcome their fear of us very quickly. By the second week, they’re routinely navigating up my pant leg, headed for my shoulders. Which brings me to the topic of claws. Did you know that kittens don’t know how to retract their claws? Me neither. I like to wear shorts. Imagine, if you will, self-propelled razor blades covered in fur scaling your unclothed limbs. In no time, I look like a badly abused scratching post – only with far more blood.
Things tend to get a bit complicated when Buddy realizes we have visitors. Everyday it’s the same pattern: He stands outside the door to the guest quarters and whines incessantly until we let him in. He looks at the kitties with an approach-avoidance mixture of fascination and fear until eventually several of them start chasing (and biting) his tail, at which point Buddy freaks out and bolts. Then 30 minutes later, he wants back in again. Go figure.
Kittens are naturally curious and adventurous – especially as they reach four weeks of age. This is when they develop an urge to go walkabout and explore EVERYTHING. They climb, leap, and knock over anything they can get their mouths on. They will play with anything they stumble into – except cat toys, of course. They will entertain themselves for hours, batting around an empty toilet paper roll, a rubber band or a twist tie. And they are masters at chewing on electrical cords, scratching the wood furniture beyond repair, and getting stuck underneath the couch and other impossible-to-extract locations. At this age, they have only two modes: Total pandemonium and coma. There is no in between.
When our short-term residents reach two pounds (around eight weeks), it’s time to take them back to the animal shelter to find forever homes. And this, for me, is by far the most difficult part. Because every time we foster, I get emotionally attached. I always want to keep some. My wife rationally insists we have plenty of cats already. Our negotiation sessions typically go something like this:
Me: Let’s keep all six of them. They’re soooooo adorable. Can we, sweetie?
Michele: No. We already have two cats. That’s plenty.
Me: Okay, you’re right. So, how about we just keep two kittens?
Michele: No. We already have enough cats.
Me: I hear you. Final offer: Let’s keep just one.
In the end, we reach a compromise, by which I mean we don’t keep any. We go through this dance whenever we foster. Every time, I tell myself I won’t get attached, and every time I fall hopelessly in love with every one of them.
By the time you read this, our house will probably be teeming with our next set of furry visitors. I already know my wife is going to say no, we can’t keep any furballs. But I have a plan. I know some embarrassing details from her past that I just might “accidentally” post to her timeline on Facebook – unless she agrees to let me keep one. So, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s totally up to my darling wife. Meow.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2019
by TEJ | Sep 10, 2018 | Political humor
[Note: Tim Jones is on vacation (pause for applause and sighs of relief). Standing in is his cat Buddy, who would like to share an important political announcement. – Staff at VFTB]
Greetings, my fellow Americans. I am Buddy. Just Buddy. No last name, as far as I know. That’s me to the right. In case you think I look familiar, it might be because I bear a striking resemblance to another kitty, my uncle Blackie, who, you may recall, composed a very important message in this blog a few years ago. (What can I say, my human, Tim Jones, really sucks at naming cats.)
Ever since Donald Trump was elected president, my human has been pacing around his man cave, going on rants, like “How could such an inept buffoon be President?” and “The man is totally unfit for the office!” Now that I look at Trump, he does look terribly out of shape. He really should stop wearing those tight tennis shorts, if you ask me. He apparently has aspirations to become a bird, as he tweets all the time. I have no idea what he’s writing – but then, neither does he. I guess we are both illiterate.
Watching Tim scream at the TV each night as he watches Rachel Maddow or Lawrence O’Donnell describe the latest Trump abomination, it’s become as plain as the whiskers on my face that I could do a better job running this country. So, that is why today, I am announcing my plans to run for president. I realize some may view me as unfit as Trump, so I have hired a personal trainer to help me shed the kitty fat and get in shape.
You may be asking yourself, “Why should I vote for a cat?” After all, there’s never been a cat that sat in the Oval Office – unless you count President Clinton’s cat Socks. But I’m fairly sure Socks had limited veto power. So, why me? Where do I begin?
First, the only skeleton you’ll find in my closet is from a mouse I killed and left as a gift for my human. (He still hasn’t thanked me, by the way.) Full disclosure: Like Trump, I too have an embarrassing episode involving peeing on a bed. In my defense, I was only a kitten and not fully litter-trained.
Unlike Trump, I have never said an unkind word about Mexicans and never will – unless they take my spot on the couch. Then they’re dead to me. I will never give any foreign leader a reason to get angry with me or brush me off – unless they’re easily upset by cat fur on their Armani jacket. My breed tends to shed a lot. (more…)
by TEJ | Apr 6, 2017 | Fun and Leisure Humor, Parenting and Family humor
Let me set the record straight: I love kittens – and cats of all ages and breeds – with the exception of Persians (I just don’t trust those shifty little eyes). My wife and I have had cats (or more accurately, cats have had us) throughout our entire marriage.
We even foster kittens to help get them used to being around people. We feed them, cuddle with them and play with them for six to ten weeks, until they’re ready to be adopted. It’s how we ended up with our two current cats, Zippy and Buddy, neither of whom, as best as I can tell, fear that I’ll try to murder them in their sleep.
I’ve never once thought about trying to snuff out any of our feline friends – okay, maybe I harbored a few nefarious thoughts when Patches peed on me, but that’s the only time – unless you count when Monster ran off with my digital watch and I later found it in the toilet.
With those very few exceptions – and maybe five or six others – I’ve rarely contemplated putting out a contract on any of our cats. But if I had plotted their demise, I could not have come up with a more fool-proof plan than the one we accidentally set in motion last week – one that almost drowned and / or electrocuted five adorable kittens and their mom.
Let me start at the very beginning…
(more…)
