Montana’s top education official is the latest government official to claim kids who “identify as cats” are relieving themselves in litter boxes at school.
Our esteemed nation’s infantile culture wars were front and center in the lead-up to the 2022 midterm elections, and dozens of candidates — including prospective governors, senators, congressmen and people eyeing local offices — humiliated themselves by promising to end the alleged scourge of public schools providing litter boxes so students who “identify as cats” can comfortably shit in a manner befitting their adopted species during school hours.
As we’ve pointed out before, the litter boxes in schools thing is an urban legend, a hoax or a malicious lie depending on your perspective. It’s also an exercise in unfairly dragging cats into our petty ideological arguments, and the poor little guys can’t seem to claw their way out.
People like podcaster Joe Rogan, congresswoman Lauren Boebert and her sister from another mister, Marjorie Taylor-Green, are among the most prominent public figures to fall for the hoax and do their part in spreading it. Even the Australians got in on the panic.
We looked into the claims at the time, and none of them turned out to have any merit. In most cases, the claims were based on third- and fourth-hand accounts: “My neighbor’s sister works in the Washington Free School District, she says another teacher told her they were putting litter boxes in the middle school!” and that sort of thing.
The other claims evaporated when the people making them were asked to provide specifics. Rogan managed to check both boxes when he finally admitted he couldn’t confirm his story.
‘I have a friend and my friend’s wife is a school teacher,” Rogan said on his podcast. “And she told him that there was discussions in the school that the mother wanted to put a litter box in a school.”
The claims died down after midterms, but they’re back again with the top education official in Montana claiming cat-identified children all over her state are pooping in litter boxes with the blessing of their teachers and principals.
“Let’s talk about boys in girls bathrooms and that safety issue,” said Elsie Arntzen, superintendent of public instruction in Montana, in an Aug. 15 interview with Montana Public Radio. “Let’s talk about those litter boxes that some schools are putting out for children who want to view themselves as some sort of an animal. Is this where public education should be? I say no.”
Arntzen, who has congressional ambitions, hasn’t been able to produce evidence of her claims. Credit: Montana state government
When asked to provide details, Arntzen doubled down, claiming she had evidence that schools in her states were equipping bathrooms with litter boxes. When Montana Free Press looked into the claim and Arntzen’s own office couldn’t produce anything to substantiate it, Arntzen through a spokesperson claimed that, actually, the office has complaints from parents “all over the state,” which they claim qualifies as the aforementioned evidence. In a development that surprised no one, Arntzen’s office couldn’t produce those complaints either and reluctantly admitted it had not fielded calls or emails from concerned parents.
Which means Arntzen, who is eyeing a congressional seat in her state, based her claim entirely on hearsay, just like all the others.
It’d be nice if this is the last we hear of the urban legend, but with 2024 around the corner and the culture war more intense and irritating than ever, chances are this is only a preview of many similar claims to come.
Cosmo, the goodest goodboy, showed me how much love animals have to give. Without Cosmo, there would be no Buddy.
Growing up, my experience with dogs was mostly limited to Sparky, my friend’s demonic Chow who had sunk his teeth into every member of his human family and most of my friends.
Four of us formed a punk/rock band as teenagers and when we’d practice at my friend Rob’s house, he had to put Sparky into the fenced-in yard for our benefit. As we jammed and I fell into the revelry of trading off guitar solos, I’d look over and see that hellspawn of a canine, face pressed against the glass, slobber oozing from his mouth as he radiated hate. I’d taunted Sparky once, stupidly and ignorantly, and he never forgot it. That glass was the only thing between me and a mauling of biblical proportions.
I was not fond of dogs, so in 2010 it was with reservation that I agreed to dog sit Cosmo, the Chihuahua-terrier mix adopted about two years earlier by my brother and his wife.
Cosmo was a lost puppy wandering the streets of Oceanside, California, when he was picked up by animal control, transferred to a shelter and put up for adoption. We don’t know exactly when he was born, how he got separated from his mom or how long he wandered the busy streets of that city.
For years I thought Cosmo was named after Cosmo Kramer, the Seinfeld character, but Mike says he was named in honor of Carl Sagan, the famous science educator whose book and movie, Cosmos, introduced generations of people to the mysteries of space.
What I do know is that it was impossible to stay ambivalent about him for long. Not with his zest for life, his puppy-like energy or his sweet nature. “Sweet” is an over-used word when it comes to animals. I wouldn’t use it to describe Bud despite the fact that he’s my cat and I love him, but it describes Cosmo perfectly. He doesn’t have an angry bone in his tiny body. He’s trusting, he has a huge heart and if you’re one of his favorite people, he’ll never let you forget it.
My brother and his wife saw their opening when I let the little guy jump into my lap, something I’d never allowed any animal to do. At the time it was so out of character for me, my brother took a photo to prove it happened.
So when they moved from Oceanside to Manhattan and planned a long weekend away, they asked me to dog sit and I agreed. At the time I was working evening shifts as a journalist for Newsday, the New York tabloid. I went from my office on 35th St. near Madison Square Garden to my brother’s apartment on 65th, gave Cosmo his dinner and took him for his walk. It was eventful: He barked and charged at a dog three times his size as if challenging the big mutt to a battle of nerves, and must have sensed me looking at a cute girl walking her dog because he made a beeline for her and refused to relax until we spoke to each other. Cosmo was an excellent wingman.
I put Cosmo in his crate that first night. It’ll be fine, Mike and Jen said. He’s cool with his crate, they said. He won’t keep you up all night, they said.
None of that was true. Cosmo barked and barked until I let him out of his crate, then barked some more until I let him into the bedroom and on the bed.
And that’s how I went from someone who could barely deal with animals to a fool letting a Chihuahua-terrier mix cuddle with me so I could finally get to sleep. Better to let the little stinker on the bed than be a zombie at work, I thought.
We fell into a rhythm that week. I’d come home, walk him around the quiet upper west side at night, and we’d watch a movie together on the couch before crashing.
While Bud is typical of his species and has the inexplicable ability to claim 80 percent of the bed despite his small size, Cosmo’s footprint on the bed grew smaller that week as he gently pushed down any barriers I’d previously maintained. I’d wake to find his little paws resting on my arm, or his body squeezed between my arm and my ribcage. Chihuahuas are true burrowers.
Cosmo traveled the world with Mike and Jen. He was a California sunshine dog, then a New York City dog, then a Washington, D.C. dog. He was with them for their years in Japan and, until very recently, their post in Ukraine.
Cosmo hated every minute in that dark, frigid country, even before Vladimir Putin started a bloody war there. He was overjoyed when the family moved from bone-chilling Ukraine back to sunny Virginia, unaware that he’d missed a war by a week though undoubtedly bummed that Mike, his favorite human, remained in the country for the next five months helping Ukrainian friends.
Best buddies.
Before they left for Tokyo in 2017, a veterinarian told Mike that Cosmo, already suffering from several ailments, probably wouldn’t live another two years.
That was more than five years ago. Cosmo made it to almost 15 years old. He was mostly deaf and nearly blind. His eyes became milky from cataracts. He limped and it took real effort to pump his little legs when Mike took him for his walks. He wasn’t able to jump up on the couch anymore, and signaled when he wanted a human to pick him up and put him in a comfortable spot.
By the summer of 2022, the little guy was on borrowed time.
My brother, ever stoic, seemed to accept it as he cradled Cosmo like a baby and told me Cosmo had cancer one night last summer. Mike doesn’t often show his emotions, but I know he’s crushed. He loved that dog. The dog adored him.
I’m not good at masking my emotions, at least when it comes to things like this. I started writing this blog post that same night before bed, a few hours after Mike told me Cosmo was dying. Tears welled in my eyes as I thought of Cosmo as a puppy wandering the streets in Oceanside, and his days as an old, tired dog. (I can imagine my brother reading this and thinking, “You pussy.” But hey, we’re all different. I’m the witty one, obviously. Also, I have more hair.)
Before we crashed on that night last summer, Mike and I watched a movie. Cosmo looked at me and gestured with his paw, signaling that he wanted up. I picked him up gently, put him down on the couch, and he nestled into my side like old times.
“He hardly does that with anyone,” Mike told me.
But that’s because we were pals. Cosmo was my buddy before there was a Buddy. Without Cosmo to show me animals could be a source of great joy, there’d be no Buddy in my life and no Pain In The Bud. Buddy would be living with someone else, and his name would probably be Rufus, or maybe Mr. Jerk. It’s difficult to imagine anyone loving him like I do, or being best pals with him. In a very real way, Cosmo gave me that gift.
Back in 2019, before PITB had its own domain and was read by a handful of friends and relatives, I wrote about Cosmo. That’s him in New York at a family gathering at my aunt’s house, and on the balcony of the apartment in Tokyo. It’s shocking to see how much he aged in only a few years.
Cosmo on the beach in San Diego. As a puppy he was separated from his mom and siblings and wandered the streets of Oceanside before animal control scooped him up. Credit: BoBB (Brother of Big Buddy)
At the risk of overdoing the anecdotes, I think the following one is illustrative of what a good dog Cosmo is.
A few years ago a bunch of us were hanging out at night drinking beer and talking around a backyard fire pit when everyone went to crash except Jen, Mike’s wife. She wanted to stay up a while longer and I agreed, so we went inside to get more beer with Cosmo following us in. The temperature had dropped and the little guy was shivering.
When we went back outside, Cosmo hesitated by the door. He wanted to hang but he was freezing and didn’t know I’d brought out a few blankets. But when I called to him he came anyway, jumped into my lap and looked at me with gratitude when I swaddled him in the blankets and moved closer to the fire. He trusted me. He knew I wasn’t going to let him freeze.
I will never forget the adventures we’ve had together. The time in California when he was barely more than a puppy and got away from me on a walk, leading me on a chase through the parking lot as I wondered how I’d explain to Mike and Jen that their beloved dog was gone. I did an entire lap around the development and was gassed out when I saw the little guy had returned to the house and was waiting for me on the front steps with a look on his face that seemed to say “Where ya been, dude? Couldn’t keep up?” Cheeky bastard.
The time I was dog-sitting again and he refused to do his business on his morning walk, then dropped a fresh turd on the gleaming marble floor of the Manhattan high rise where Mike and Jen lived, right in front of a rush of commuters exiting the lobby elevators.
In his layer years Cosmo could give Bud a run for his money when it came to napping. Credit: BoBB or SiLoBB.
The subsequent dog-sitting stints, when we’d hang out on the couch and watch horror movies, jolting upright together during jump-scares.
The time we all went hiking in a state park near Albany and a huge bird-of-prey began circling above, apparently deciding Cosmo would make a nice lunch. (Jen had to pick him up and cradle him protectively on the walk, and the bird eventually went in search of easier pickings.)
The first time I babysat for my newborn niece, fresh off of learning how to change a diaper by watching a Youtube video, and began to freak out as she cried and Cosmo barked. They seemed to be stuck in a feedback loop and for a panicked moment I thought I was in way over my head. Cosmo took the arrival of the girls in stride. He’d gone from the center of his human parents’ world to still very much loved, but forced to share time, affection and attention with one little human, then another. He never took it out on the kids even when they occasionally played too rough, as all kids do.
And of course that first hesitant occasion in California when I allowed him to climb into my lap and decided not all animals were bad after all.
If not for Cosmo — and, coincidentally, a friend’s super friendly tuxedo cat who was also named Cosmo — I would not have known my allergies could be managed as an adult, and I would almost certainly not have looked into adopting a cat. I was coming off a brutal few months of seasonal affective disorder and for the first time I gave the idea serious thought. Cosmo showed me that animals could be good friends, stress relievers and a constant source of entertainment, as well as loyal and never judgmental. (Well, mostly…I do think Bud’s judging me every time I go to the kitchen and don’t fetch him a snack.)
Buddy owes a debt to Cosmo even though he’d never admit it.
It’s the night after Thanksgiving 2022 and I’m trying to finish this blog post after letting it rest for months. On Thanksgiving Day, Cosmo didn’t seem to recognize me in a noisy house full of family, but tonight he ran to the door to greet me, barking happily and pressing his paws against my legs just like old times. He spent the next few hours in my lap, soaking up my body heat as I scratched his head and back.
A younger Cosmo looking healthy and happy at my aunt’s house during the holidays. Cosmo was a pro at scarfing down any stray crumbs from appetizers or the dinner table.
It’s Dec. 29. Cosmo spent the holidays by the fireplace, swaddled in blankets. Normally no one, human or animal, would sit that close to a fire. For Cosmo, it was the only way to stop shivering as the heating system struggled against record-breaking cold.
Cosmo loved to burrow anywhere he could.
It’s now early August and my brother is visiting with his wife and kids. This is the last time I will see Cosmo, but neither of us knows it.
I’m relieved to see he recognizes me. The last time he was in New York there were too many people, too much commotion for an old dog. Now he wags his tail and jumps up like a puppy, and I bend down, rub his head and tell him how happy I am to see him.
Aug. 16, 2023:
Cosmo died at about 11:30 pm in Mike’s arms, in Mike and Jen’s bed, his bed. He’d been having a rough couple of days and after he’d been sick a few times and soiled himself that evening, it became clear the end was near. They were at their vacation home in the Outer Banks at the time, and the nearest emergency vet was more than an hour away. Cosmo wouldn’t have made it anyway.
Cosmo was a happy dog, but he was never happier than when he was with Mike, and I have no doubt that there’s no place he’d rather have been, no person he’d rather have holding him in those last few hours. He died with the people who loved him most, after living almost 15 years as part of their family.
I spoke to my brother the day after Cosmo passed and checked in with him a day or two later to ask how he was handling Cosmo’s death.
“Honestly, having never had a pet before, I was not expecting to be this impacted by his death,” he texted back. “It’s shitty.”
Indeed. I mourn Cosmo knowing that the day will come when I’ll mourn my own best little buddy.
If there’s any real downside to opening your home and your heart to an animal, it’s the fact that their time on Earth is unfairly short. Some people say the pain of losing them is too much, but no matter how difficult it is, it can’t compare to the years of companionship, memories and love. As my canine friend crosses the fabled rainbow bridge, he’s taught me one last lesson about pets: To cherish the time we have and remember that, one day, we’ll happily trade a puked-on carpet, a broken guitar or a scratched-up chair just to have a little more time with them.
Ever brave, the unshakeable feline survived an encounter with a dangerous Swiffer.
NEW YORK — Buddy the Cat poked his head around the side of the couch, cautiously investigating a pressured liquid sound he’d never heard before.
“And that’s when I saw it,” Buddy recalled. “This monstrous purple creature thing, and it was spitting liquid and making the floor all wet, smelly and disgusting. It was terrifying!”
Recoiling from the strong scent of citrus, that vile fruit, Buddy beat a hasty retreat, stopping every few feet to hiss at the floor-defiling automaton. The brave feline jumped and climbed to the safety of a high perch, where he was able to meow insistently at his inconsiderate human.
“Now’s an excellent time for a nap.”
When the Swiffing was complete, Big Buddy coaxed his furry friend down with the offer of a snack.
“Who’s a good, brave boy?” Big Buddy asked, shaking the bag.
“Well, I suppose I am pretty brave,” Buddy acknowledged.
After he finished his well-deserved snack, Buddy ran screaming into the bedroom and dived under the bed when he heard the rustle of a large paper bag.
There’s not a shred of evidence that shows arbitrarily gunning down cats has any positive impact on the environment, but that hasn’t stopped vigilantes from hunting them.
There’s this bizarre and infuriating idea among people who call themselves conservationists that they can save certain animals by running around and arbitrarily gunning down other animals.
These people will shoot certain species of birds to protect other bird species, extirpate ferrets, pine martens and various other mustelids, and have had a hard-on for cats ever since a series of shockingly dishonest pieces of propaganda masquerading as studies used fabulated data to paint felines as furry demon spawn who feast on birds by the billions in countries like the US, New Zealand and Australia.
They used to be quiet about it because they realized gunning down cats isn’t exactly good PR for their cause, but now they don’t even bother.
Like John McConnell, a 67-year-old New Zealander whose hobby is going out with a rifle to shoot cats at night because he thinks that’s an effective way to protect birds.
“I shoot them,” McConnell told The Guardian. “Seriously. If it’s a cat and I know whose it is, I’ll leave it. But if it’s a stray cat – it’s a goner. Even if it’s domestic and it’s out at night, I’m getting to the point where I’d shoot those as well, because they shouldn’t be out.”
Two things to note here:
McConnell is playing vigilante cat killer, having appointed himself arbiter of which animals get to live and which ones don’t, but he doesn’t understand that stray, feral and pet cats are all the same species. This is a man who thinks the difference between a domesticated and wild animal is whether it has a home.
The article contains no statistics and nothing in the way of numbers other than a wild estimate of New Zealand’s cat population, yet it’s filled with anecdotes: people who claim they see more birds after they’ve bagged a couple of cats, but can offer no evidence. That’s not an effective or smart way to make public policy.
Between the bogus studies and the lack of any data remotely suggesting that arbitrarily shooting domesticated animals has a measurable impact on bird populations, there is nothing to support this kind of ruthless nonsense. You’d think that, if an entire country is going to war with an animal species and has vowed to take potentially millions of lives, there would be something — anything — to back up the claim that inflicting all that misery and suffering on sentient creatures would accomplish a conservation goal.
Australia’s reward for culling cats: annual mouse plagues for the past three years since killing millions of cats with air-dropped sausages laced with a chemical that is poisonous only to felids.
Especially after their neighbors, the Australians, killed two million cats with poisoned sausages in a similarly misguided attempt at protecting wildlife and were rewarded for their efforts with three years (and counting) of biblical mouse plagues that destroyed thousands of homes, farms and businesses, and caused billions in damage. Mice, by the way, are a non-native species introduced by settlers from the UK.
Credit another blow to the environment from human behavior as people randomly shoot cats. I suppose blaming cats is easier than admitting we’ve behaved abominably and are the root cause of these problems.
But let’s stop for a moment and imagine if the situation were reversed. Imagine people who want to protect cats decided they’re going to start shooting dogs, foxes, coyotes, owls, eagles and other large birds of prey.
Suppose someone decided that John McConnell’s dog shouldn’t be out for walks and shot it in an act of conservationist vigilantism.
Would anyone tolerate that? Wouldn’t they be labeled lunatics and condemned? What makes the cat culling any different, aside from “justification” in the form of a handful of widely-condemned, heavily-criticized studies that violate just about every elementary rule of scientific research?
Here’s comedian Bill Burr’s take on the absurdity of human efforts to manage wildlife population by shooting animals. Burr, whose everyman facade and humor often mask salient points, also takes the rest of us to task by pointing out it’s humanity, not the behavior of animals, that has the biggest impact on the planet and its wildlife, yet no one’s suggesting we cull our own population.
“I think it’s weird that human beings are trying to control the populations of animals. You know? Like any time the deer population gets out of control, some dude will get on TV like [puts on a redneck accent] ‘Okay, the deer population is up to about 17, 1,800, realistically we need to get that number down to about five or six, alright? So starting tomorrow, if you got a gun, f—ing shoot them in the face!’ I’m just sitting at home like, ‘What are the deer doing that’s so bad for the environment?’ [Slips into a redneck accent again] ‘They eat all the f—in’ grass! They comin’ up to trees, just nibblin’! Just nibblin’!’ Dude, the deer didn’t put a hole in the ozone layer, alright? That’s not a bunch of dogs clogging up the freeway. It’s us, alright?”
Then he lays into people who breed like rabbits, and this is a personal pet peeve of mine whenever I hear someone like Alec Baldwin, a man who has eight children, four massive homes, a fleet of SUVs and an army of nannies, holding court on environmental responsibility and global warming. Baldwin has 12 to 16 people living under his roof at any time, with palatial homes that consume more energy each than entire European villages, yet that doesn’t stop him from adopting a patrician tone and lecturing the “peasants” (his word) on their environmental responsibilities.
A word of caution: while I think Burr is hilarious, this clip is also peppered with obscenities, as his most of his material. If that sort of thing bothers you, skip the clip. If not, well, he’s got a point:
The English language does not provide the means to properly state how much this cat loves corn. To quote Dave Chappelle: “Look at him, he loves it!”
This isn’t just a video of a cute cat eating corn.
It’s a video of a cute cat who gives a cry of joy when he sees his human plop corn a cob of corn onto his plate, then tears into it with such gusto that he half-purrs, half-growls as he devours his yums. Seriously, make sure you turn the volume on, it has to be heard to be believed:
The Corn Kid, famous for declaring “When I tried it with butter, everything changed…I can’t imagine a more beautiful thing!” might be given a run for his money by this cat.
And if you haven’t heard about the Corn Kid, well, make your day brighter by checking out this songified version by the same guys who created a ridiculously catchy pop song out of the Bed Invader news segment back in 2010:
In case you’re wondering, corn won’t kill your cat. In fact, as veterinarians point out, your cat probably eats corn regularly because pet food companies use the stuff as filler in cat food despite the fact that, as obligate carnivores, cats don’t really get any nutritional value by eating it. However, it’s not meat, so if your cat likes corn, you should give it to kitty only in moderation as too much can cause an upset stomach and digestive problems.
Pain In The Bud 