From the Department of Your Kitty Hates Being Forced to Wear Costumes, we have Kate Beckinsale’s cat barely concealing his rage in front of a Christmas tree.
The scowling Persian’s name is Clive, and he’s 11 years old. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s thinking “I’m too old for this shit…” and planning increasingly spectacular ways to kill his human.
Dip him in some green dye and he’d be a dead ringer for the Grinch!
Seriously, this cat is not happy. Look at the tail twitching in irritation and his eyes narrowing in fury:
This is not the first time the Underworld actress has subjected poor Clive to such indignities. A few days before Christmas of 2017 Beckinsale dressed the little guy as a dinosaur, and he seemed to hate it slightly less than he hates this year’s Santa costume.
I’d suffer death by a thousand cuts if I tried to squeeze Buddy into a costume like this:
Buddy’s blissful bubble is burst when he realizes not all comments are kind.
Buddy: Watcha doin’, amigo?
Big Buddy: Nothing much, just looking at some NBA box scores before bed.
Buddy: Can you go back to the comments on that last story about me? The one where you exaggerate how I wait for you by the door…
Big Buddy: How exactly was that story exaggerated?
Buddy: I don’t wait for you by the door when you leave. I merely take a nap in proximity to the door. There’s a difference.
Big Buddy: Uh, okay then.
Buddy: Just read the comments!
Big Buddy: Okay. Wow, this one is very complementary: “Buddy is the most handsome tabby alive. Stunningly beautiful! Those eyes…”
Buddy: I like that one. More!
Big Buddy: Okay here’s one that says “He’s an absolutely beautiful cat,” and the next comment reads “What a sweetheart!”
Buddy: It’s true, isn’t it? I’m almost too handsome and charming. More!
Big Buddy: All right, this one says “Buddy has exquisite eyes.” Here’s another that says “What a gorgeous cat!” Oh, and you’ll like this: “Buddy is quite the hottie!”
Buddy: That’s what I’m talking about! People are finally recognizing my good looks! More!
Big Buddy: All right, what do we have here? “Buddy is a vain little jerk. I bet he rolls around in his own poop!”
Buddy:WHAT?! Who wrote that?
Big Buddy: Someone named LosGatos13. Pfffft. Wow. Listen to this one: “What a fat bastard. The police would throw him in jail, but he’d just eat his way out.” Ouch. Oh, this one from ChickMagnet217 is even worse: “Buddy is so fat, I took a photo of him last year and it’s still printing.”
Buddy: WHAT?!? Let me see that!
Big Buddy: Is that steam coming out of your ears?
Buddy: Buy us a plane ticket, now!
Big Buddy: Uh, why?
Buddy: Because you and I are going to fly from the internet to find this ChickMagnet217 and beat him up!
Big Buddy: You weigh 10 pounds. What are you doing to do, shred his ankles?
Buddy: No, I’m going to wait for you to beat him up, then I’m going to jump on top of him and slap him silly!
Big Buddy: That’s an assault charge, little dude. If I’m buying a plane ticket it’s gonna be to someplace warm where they put little umbrellas in cocktails, not to some nerd’s house.
Buddy: I’m sure they have umbrellas and cocktails wherever ChickMagnet217 lives. This is important. I order you, as my servant, to buy the ticket!
Big Buddy: No.
Buddy: Buy it!
Big Buddy: Nope. Calm down. Go take a nap or something.
FOUR DAYS LATER…
[There’s a knock at the door. I open it to find two unamused police detectives standing in the apartment hallway.]
Big Buddy: What can I do for you, officers?
Detective: I’m looking for a Buddy…
Big Buddy: You’ll have to be more specific, I’m afraid…
[Detective holds up a turkey-stained envelope in an evidence bag, with ChickMagnet217’s address and my return address written in sloppy crayon.)
Detective: Are you familiar with the Interstate Fecal Transport Act of 1972? It’s a federal offense to mail shit across state lines, punishable by up to five years in prison.
Big Buddy: Could you hold that thought a second? Thanks.
[Clears throat]
Buddy! Come here, Bud, these nice men are from the cat food company and you’ve just won a years’ supply of Savory Turkey Entree!
[Buddy comes tearing toward the door and skids to a halt, looking up at me and the detectives.]
Buddy: A whole year of turkey? Wow!
Big Buddy: Yup! You’ll just have to go with these two gentlemen here. They’ll take you back to the, uh, pet food headquarters to sign some paperwork for your turkey. Bye, Bud!
“A whole year’s supply of turkey! I hit the jackpot!”
What’s wrong with the above picture? Anyone who knows anything about my species will recognize immediately that the collar is on the wrong person. The “cat” should be leading the human around, although a collar isn’t strictly necessary for humans — usually a few stern meows are enough to get the message across.
Kat Lyons (come on!) fastens a tail to her behind, wears a pair of kitty ears on her head, and for some reason completes the look with a Catholic school girl skirt, because apparently my species dresses like Catholic school girls. (Plaid tabbies, anyone?)
In the accompanying video, Ms. Lyons climbs up onto a dinner table and awkwardly laps at a bowl of milk with her tongue.
”People are like ‘Oh, you’re not really a cat,’ and I’m like ‘I feel like I really am, though,’” Lyons told a documentary crew from Barcroft.
So what do I really think about all of this? I say, “Stop appropriating my culture!”
Licking your own butt, pooping in a box and sleeping 16 hours a day are traditions that have a long history among my people, and outsiders simply cannot understand the subtle cultural nuances of such behavior.
For example, screaming bloody murder when dinner is 45 seconds late is a tradition that has deep roots going back millennia to the days of the First Kittehs, and shitting on things is the time-honored way of registering displeasure.
It’s one thing to say “Stop! I don’t like what you’re doing!” and quite another to build a monument of fecal matter on your human’s pillow as a means of expressing deep dissatisfaction.
A cultural appropriator appropriating my species’ well-known affinity for boxes. An outrage!
But if Ms. Lyons really wants to be a cat, she must pass the Trial of the Tabbies, and prove herself by catching and eating a delicious raw mouse.
She must possess the ability to groom herself, and she must demonstrate she can’t open cans anymore.
That’s a human superpower, and if Kat Lyons wants to be a real cat, she must forfeit her ability to perform such sorcery and meow for dinner like the rest of us.
You’ve got a dilemma, one that has tormented many a vegan before you.
While you’ve joined the ranks of the enlightened and meat-free, you also have a cat…and your cat eats meat.
Your vegan side urges you to put kitty on a strict plant-based kibble regimen. Your rational side reminds you she depends on you and cutting meat from her diet will seriously harm her.
“I will murder you for this, human!”
Cats may be obligate carnivores, but how can you admonish the meat-eating savages of humankind when your four-legged friend gobbles down chicken and turkey flesh every day?
Fear not, vegan friends, for a genuine solution is upon us! I present to you Buddy’s Old-Fashioned Meat-Based Vegan Cat Food. It’s vegan with meat added, meaning kitty gets all the nutrients she needs for a healthy, happy life while you get to tell everyone that you AND your cat are vegans.
After all, what is the purpose of veganism if you can’t tell everyone you meet that you’re a vegan?
Buddy’s Old-Fashioned Meat-Based Vegan Cat Food, available wherever fine cat foods are sold.
Buddy’s having a difficult time adjusting to his new diet.
Day 1: I meowed for treats for two hours and 37 minutes this morning, to no avail. Has Buddy the Larger suffered a stroke? This could pose serious problems for my snacking requirements.
Day 2: This must be a joke. A bad, totally-not-funny joke that’s gonna end with my teeth and claws delivering the final punchline. I WANT MY TREATS NOW.
Day 3: This new kibble is tasteless. Blue Buffalo Wilderness, my ass. More like Brown Cardboard Inside. Thank God I still get turkey. Oh, turkey, I love you.
Day 4: It has been 93 hours, 22 minutes and 17 seconds since my last treat, a creamy, moist morsel of manufactured goodness that activated the reward pathways in my brain like only the finest kitty crack can. You got any on you, bro?
Day 5: By employing my own talents of stealth and acrobatics, I’ve discovered not only is Big Buddy withholding snacks from me, they’ve all disappeared from the snack cabinet! What horrible sorcery is this?
Day 6: Last night I helped myself to some of Big Buddy’s pasta when he left the room to refill his beverage. It’s awful, rubbery stuff topped with sauce made from tomato, that infernal vegetable. Yet I gulped it down. What’s happening to me?!
Pain In The Bud 