thebigbuddy

Buddy and the People

How our cats interact with other people can reveal a lot about their personalities.

Buddy and the People. Sounds like a dance-rock band, doesn’t it? Or maybe an 80s pop group with a Huey Lewis vibe.

One of the more interesting aspects of being a cat ~~caretaker~~ minion is seeing how our furry friends interact with other people. For those of us who write about cats — and everyone who has a cat — most of our musings tend to focus on our direct relationships with the little ones.

But getting to sit back and watch how they respond to others can be just as much fun, and sometimes we get to see new aspects of our cats’ personalities.

Buddy is exceptionally friendly and sociable. I like to think it’s because I socialized the shit out of him as a kitten, taking him to new places, having him meet new people, and even making friends with a few dogs. But the truth is he’s been that way since kittenhood, and hopefully I did my best to encourage it.

My Brother, the Other Big Buddy

My brother is Buddy’s favorite person in the world, aside from Big Buddy of course. Bud knows he’s family and treats him that way.

When my brother was staying with me for a few nights and he took the couch, there could not be a closed door between us. Buddy wasn’t having it.

Eventually I relented, warned my brother that he’d likely be startled by feline hi-jinx before falling asleep, and would be woken up rudely at least once overnight. Maybe he’d wake to find Buddy perched on his chest and licking his face. Maybe he’d be violently ripped out of sleep by my jerk of a cat pouncing on his stomach. Or maybe he’d get the classic “Isn’t your face a reasonable place to walk?” indifference cats are famous for.

My Niece, the Terrible Toddler

(Buddy retreating from my niece. This was the one and only day he wore a collar, spending most of his time trying to get it off before I relented after about two hours and removed it for him.)

His daughter, my niece, is a completely different story. Buddy is terrified of her.

They were babies at the same time, and we’ve got some cute photos of the two of them. I’ve always been careful to supervise any interaction, making sure they’re gentle with each other: No tail-pulling, no clawing. They were good together.

Then my niece became fully ambulatory, and everything changed. Suddenly Buddy’s home, his kingdom, was invaded by this lumbering, oblivious toddler who could very likely hurt him by lack of fine motor skills alone. She chased him, tried to pet him and was delighted every time he ran in terror and retreated to higher ground.

One weekend when I was the babysitter, the Funcle, she asked if she could use the wand toy — Da Bird, for cat servants in the know — to play with him.

Why not? I thought. I showed her how to hold the wand and demonstrated how we play with the cat chasing the feathers.

Then I handed it to her and watched with horror as she proceeded to swing it at Buddy like a slugger trying to blast a 3-0 pitch out of a ballpark.

We put the wand toys on hold after that.

My Mom, the Wicked and Cruel

Buddy loves my mom, but my mom does not love Buddy.

She’s the kind of person who gets grossed out by cat hair on her clothes and thinks cats are inscrutable, selfish little beasts. Most of the time she ignores poor Buddy’s attempts at affection. She won’t acknowledge him when he rubs up against her legs or bunts his head against her hand.

This has afforded me the opportunity to make her feel guilty with cartoonishly monstrous accusations:

“This poor little cat just wants you to love him, and you can’t even give him a scratch on the head and say good boy? What kind of person is so cold-hearted?”

She’s watched Buddy for me a few times, mostly when I’ve been gone for long weekends. She knows Buddy sleeps on top of me, and I really lay the guilt trip on her for refusing to allow him to sleep in bed with her:

“You’re telling me you’re going to listen to little Buddy crying at the bedroom door, you’re going to hear his tiny paws beating desperately against the door and ignore his plaintive mews for comfort? He just wants to be loved! You are a terrible, disgusting person. Oh, and don’t forget to put fresh water in his bowl every time you feed him.”

Then to add the final touch, the killer ingredient in the guilt sandwich, I’ll text her my first night I’m away and tell her to send me daily photos of Bud next to the current day’s newspaper, so I know he’s still alive.

My Friends, the Apostates

True to a cat, the Budster is like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to approaching the least cat-friendly person in the room.

It’s like he’s saying “You will like me, human!” as he sprinkles on the sugar, rubbing up against the newcomer and purring like a sweet little kitty.

“You aren’t big on cats, are you?” I’ll usually ask. “Just pet him. Rub your hand through the fur on his back and scratch the top of his head.”

Invariably: “Wow, his fur is so soft!”

And just like that Buddy’s made a new friend, or has enlisted the services of a new servant, however you choose to look at it.

Perhaps the best are the naysayers and dog people. They never fail to set themselves up.

“Cats are okay, I guess, if you’re into stubborn pets who just sit there,” they’ll say. “But dogs? Dogs can do stuff. You can train dogs. You can’t train cats.”

That’s my favorite moment.

“Hey Bud!” I’ll call out, and Buddy’ll pad on over to me. “High five!”

The disbelief on the faces of doubters when Buddy slaps his little paw against my open palm is delicious.

Buddy 1, Guests 0.

The Birthday Boy Is 5 Years Old!

buddyversaryjpg

It’s a bit of a paradox.

While it really doesn’t feel like five years have passed since I adopted a tiny gray kitten who quickly took over my home and my heart, sometimes I find it difficult to remember what life was like B.B., or Before Bud.

Buddy is a presence.

Of my cat-minion friends, most serve timid kitties who are experts at making themselves scarce. Some hide so well when guests are over, you’d never know a feline lives in the house. Only a few scattered toys or the presence of a litter box gives them away.

With Buddy there’s never any doubt a cat lives in my his home.

Like a dog, Buddy comes running any time there’s a knock on the door, standing beside me and sizing up visitors. He loves Halloween. He likes meeting new people and revels in attention. From his many perches he keeps watch over the neighborhood like a nosy Italian grandmother who knows everything about everyone in a three-block radius.

He also makes a lot of noise, to the point where I don’t have to look up from what I’m doing to know what he’s up to and where he is. If it’s quiet, that means he’s taking a nap.

I don’t do anything without Buddy getting involved somehow or supervising, and there can never, ever be a closed door between us or it becomes armageddon around here.

Over the past year or so I’ve learned I’m decent at writing amusing anecdotes about the little guy, but one thing I’m lousy at is expressing what he means to me. That’s not a surprise, since I’m terrible at expressing my love and gratitude for the people closest to me in life, nevermind the cats.

Suffice to say the inspiration for all these stories about vast catnip empires and the voice behind the world’s worst advice column is a loyal, endlessly amusing ~~cat~~ tiger with a big heart. And while he may not be “sweet” by traditional kitteh standards and he doesn’t like to be held, he signals his affection in other ways, like grooming my hair and falling asleep in my lap, where he feels safe.

Now that the saccharine stuff is out of the way, let’s end this post with matters of true import: His Grace has decreed that any and all gifts should come in the form of turkey, including but not limited to turkey meaty sticks, turkey moist treats and turkey-themed toys. Send them to Buddy, King of Mew York. The post office will know where to direct them.

Happy birthday, little man!

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Dear Buddy: Halp! I Don’t Want To Be Neutered!

Dear Buddy,

My human has me scheduled to go to the vet for neutering on May 12, and the dreaded day is fast approaching. I’m terrified! I don’t want to be neutered! Help me please, how do I get out of this nightmare?

Terrified in Texas

Dear Terrified in Texas,

What the hell are you talking about?

Buddy

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Dear Buddy,

It’s when your human brings you to the evil veterinarian and they remove your balls! How can you not know this? You’re telling me you weren’t neutered?

T in T

Dear T in T,

I still have my balls. My favorite is green and fuzzy and I use it to play catch with Big Buddy. I also have one with little lights in it and it makes noises when I swat it around! So much fun!

There’s a catnip ball too, but the catnip is inside and I can’t get to it. That kinda sucks. Tell your human not to take away your toys.

Buddy

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Dear Buddy,

No, you moron! Your balls! As in testicles! They cut them! It hurts just thinking about it!

T in T

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Dear T in T,

Hey now! No need for name calling. Who is Testicles? Was he friends with Achilles and Socrates? And what does this have to do with balls?

If you’re gonna write in and ask my advice, the least you can do is make sense!

Buddy

(The great warrior Testicles led the Spartans alongside Leonidas and the 300 legendary cats who fought a million-strong dog army in Thermopylae Alley. To this day, poets sing songs of Testicles and his bravery.)

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Dear Buddy,

I suggest you go and ask your beloved Big Buddy what happened the first time you went to the veterinarian. Make sure your claws are extra sharp before you have that conversation. You’ll thank me later.

T in T

(King Leonidas — er, Leokittiness — image courtesy of CollageOrama.)

Dear Buddy : How Do I Push Kitty Crack On High-Class Felines?

Never, ever deal to Siamese. They never shut up, and before you know it they’re blabbing your name to everyone.

Dear Buddy,

Catnip is incredibly lucrative, and in one year my new operation has expanded to a 20-cat organization slinging six pounds of the green gold per week to kitties in my neighborhood. I control all the colonies and clowders, and I have connections into the shelter system who deal exclusively to cats on the inside.

Now I’m looking to expand, but I don’t know where to go. As an OG niplord who practically invented the game, what do you think?

Respect,

Niplord in New York

Dear Niplord in New York,

I’m glad the youngins know my name and know of the path I blazed slingin’ that funky feline product. My empire was vast, I ate only the finest turkey and my human was none the wiser.

Now, to the matter at paw: You need to find a way into the suburbs. That’s where the real money is, dealing high-grade nip to high-class cats like those Persians, Abyssinians, Russian Blues and Turkish Angoras.

Do not, no matter how much money you think is on the table, ever deal to Siamese. They never shut up, and before you know it they’re blabbing your name to everyone, until officers from animal control are on your tail. Don’t sling to the Siamese!

The best way to get an in to the suburbs is to attend fancy feline soirees, the kind where those dainty Burmillas mix with the Angoras and pâté is served on silver plates, not in bowls.

Notice something about that group? Yep. They’re all white, which means you can jack up the prices and Five-Oh mostly leaves their neighborhoods alone. In the white neighborhoods, the kitty crack is sold in extravagant houses, not street corners.

But remember, you can’t show up at one of those lavish dinner parties talking street, son. Work on an appropriate accent, and give yourself a credible backstory so your new clientele believe you come from meowney. During my day I spoke with a convincing British accent, and told cats I was a British shorthair. They joke’s on them, ’cause they got played by a “common” American domestic shorthair. Fools.

Just remember to play it cool and never sample your own product.

Buddy out.

Fat Tony, RIP, controlled vast amounts of territory in Queens and Brooklyn before he was taken out in a hit by Los Gatos. The nip trade is lucrative, but it’s also dangerous.

If Catnip Is To Cats As Marijuana Is To Humans, Why’s It Legal?

Catnip isn’t illegal because the market would simply move underground under the control of the Gatos Gangs.

No one wants to see a revival of the bloody turf wars that resulted from the last time crusading politicians classified “the nip” as a Schedule I controlled substance.

The days of illegality were marked by brutal violence at the paws of niplords like Avon Meowsdale and Pawblo Escobar, who controlled the public housing towers and street corners with an iron claw, dispatching armies of furry minions to push that kitty crack.

It all seems like a joke until you slow-roll through the neighborhood and watch previously respectable cats splayed out on the sidewalks, twitching and drooling, dispatched by that foul weed to a world where neurons fire in poultry flavors and every object is a ball of yarn just waiting to be unraveled.

If your cat has been addicted to the nip, you’ll know the signs.

Medicine cabinets, pantries and kitchen cupboards sloppily rummaged through by shaking paws.

Oregano bottles left half-empty because your cat gorged himself on the herb until he realized he wasn’t getting high.

Globs of half-digested kibble upchucked in corners and closets by your withdrawal-stricken, sweat-matted kitty.

Cans of expensive cat food vanishing overnight, used as currency to purchase “can bags” of the insidious perennial.

Cat condos, toys and scratchers suddenly disappearing, pawned by desperate kitties who just need to “get well one last time.”

In short, illegal catnip turns our beloved felines into criminals who stalk the seedy underbellies of our cities, padding to all sorts of unsavory locations in pursuit of a fix. It empowers gangs like The Gatos and fuels feline criminal empires, which in turn leads to savage turf wars.

When veterinary clinics were filled to capacity with the victims of the brutal catnip wars, it was a wake-up call. Even kittens were caught up in the crossfire and recruited by The Gatos to serve as look-outs and runners.

Nowadays catnip is a strictly regulated yet legal market controlled by the likes of Jackson Galaxy and the Meowijuana Company instead of The Gatos. The world is a better place for it.