The mercurial tabby cat tried to convince Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth to bomb the Isle of Dogs, White House officials grudglingly acknowledged.
The controversy over leaked war plans expanded Monday after new reports revealed a journalist was not the only outsider added to a text group between senior members of the administration.
Buddy the Cat, a domestic tabby from New York, was also invited to the group and subsequently made privy to classified information, the White House acknowledged.
While Atlantic editor Jeffrey Goldberg observed the text conversation between senior members of the Trump administration without participating in the exchange, sources say Buddy the Cat tried to convince Pete Hegseth, the defense secretary, to bomb London’s Isle of Dogs.
In addition, White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt grudgingly acknowledged Buddy was able to convince Hegseth and Kristi Noem, the homeland security secretary, to send federal agents to the home of a cat named Smudge, describing him as “a gastronomic terrorist who hates America and will stop at nothing to claim all the snacks for himself.”
When administration officials denied knowing Buddy the Cat, social media users began unearthing dozens of photos of the feline associating with national leaders. No one knows how deep the conspiracy goes.
Initially White House officials denied the feline was given access to the text group, with Leavitt calling it “an egregious example of the fake news media inventing absurd stories,” but they were forced to acknowledge the veracity of the incident when confronted with copies of the exchange.
“Folks, we are cleared for go, CENTCOM has given us the green light for the fifth strike package,” Hegseth wrote. “F-18 launch imminent.”
“Are we just going to ignore the Isle of Dogs?” Buddy the Cat texted in response.
The text caused confusion, with several senior officials speculating on the sender’s identity.
“The contact says ‘BTC.’ Who the heck is this?” Director of National Intelligence Tulsi Gabbard asked.
“It’s [US Marine Corps] Gen. [Barrington T.] Caldwell,” replied Mike Waltz, the National Security Advisor. “Got to be.”
Noem also initially tried to distance herself from the scandal by claiming she didn’t know Buddy, but photographs soon emerged of the tabby cat lounging on the podium while she spoke at CPAC in 2003.
It’s not clear how senior White House officials were convinced by a cat that a London neighborhood was related to an Iran-backed Shia militia in Yemen, but an anonymous official credited Buddy the Cat for “being very convincing. We all thought he was the general.”
While the feline’s suggestion to bomb the London neighborhood was co-signed by Hegseth, it was ultimately rejected by CENTCOM, which noted the UK is an allied country and there was no indication “terrorist dogs” populated the London neighborhood.
More successful was Buddy the Cat’s suggestion to send a federal strike team to the home of Smudge, his archrival.
The chonky cat screeched his innocence after heavily armed and armored federal agents smashed the door down and found him mid-bowel movement in his litter box.
“1337et: Agents have located the CHONKY little jerk in his domicile, where they found fresh explosive materials in his litter box and a suspiciously well-stocked cupboard,” Buddy wrote to the Houthi PC Small Group.
“Congrats, general!” Waltz wrote, while Noem called the arrest “a major win for American freedom and security.”
Reporters, former military officers and intelligence officials criticized the leak, pointing out that if a cat could get access to highly sensitive war plans — and influence them in real time — America’s enemies could do the same. But White House officials pushed back on the criticism, saying it was overblown.
“So someone put a cat on a text chain,” Leavitt said, snapping at a reporter during a press briefing. “So what? You guys are, like, being so dramatic!”
Buddy’s back at it, trying to befriend big cats. Emboldened by his success with the tolerant and wise jaguars, the reckless tabby has his sights set on the savanna and its temperamental predators, the leopards. Can Buddy win the admiration of these notoriously dangerous felids, or will he end up as a light snack for a spotted cat?
VIRUNGA NATIONAL PARK, Democratic Republic of Congo — “What the heck is that?”
A leopardess raised her head in response to her mate’s question, gazing down from the sturdy limb of an acacia tree where she’d taken refuge from the scorching midday sun.
Two hundred yards ahead, a tiny gray cat was padding toward them, picking his way carefully around rocks and occasionally disappearing in the high grass.
“There’s nothin’ that a hundred men on Mars could ever do,” the little feline sang as he walked. “I bless the rains down in Africa! I bless the rains down in…”
The diminutive feline stopped near the base of the tree and looked up at the leopards.
The adult leopards were momentarily stunned until one of the cubs awoke from her nap, spotted Buddy and exclaimed: “Look, mommy, lunch!”
The small cat flashed a wide smile.
“That’s a great idea! I’ve already eaten, but you know what they say: a lunch a day barely keeps the rumbles at bay! I’m a three-lunch cat, myself. So what are we having?”
Another cub piped up.
“That’s not lunch, that’s a snack!” he told his sister.
“And what a cute little snack he is!” the female cub said, gracefully dropping from her napping spot in the tree.
Buddy’s eyes bulged.
“You’re…you’re talking about me?”
The male cub did a squeaky impression of a roar.
“Do you see any other single-serve snacks around?”
Buddy licked his lips, his effort to hide his fear betrayed by his rising hackles and tail, which now resembled a quivering spiked club.
“I…I…I am a cat,” he said in his best impression of an authoritative meow. “I’m practically your cousin!”
The female was just paces away now and moving too fast for Buddy’s liking as he backpedaled.
“The question is,” she said, “are you tasty like cousin Serval or cousin cheetah?”
Credit: RudiHulshof/iStock
Buddy changed tactics.
“This is an outrage! Not even the tigers tried to eat me! This is…this is, uh, catibalism!”
The cubs were circling him now.
“Mommy, can we have a snack?” the male cub called, looking back at his mother on the tree.
“As long as it doesn’t spoil your dinner later,” came the reply.
“It won’t, mamma!”
Buddy gulped.
The cubs closed the distance, ready to strike, and Buddy was babbling while pleading for his life when the earth itself shook.
Branches jolted and leaves dropped. A flock of birds nesting in a nearby tree took off, silhouettes etching ephemeral geometric patterns in the sky. In the distance, a baboon shrieked a warning to its troop.
The cubs went from aggressive to retreat in the span of an instant, and even their parents looked alarmed, taking off after their young.
Buddy watched them flee, wondering if he should bolt in another direction as something incomprehensibly gargantuan lumbered toward him, shaking the trees.
He’d emptied his bowels by the time a gigantic head poked through the foliage, followed by the rest of the colossal beast. It was gray-skinned, leathery and bizarre, unlike anything Buddy had ever seen.
“Giant space aliens!” he screamed, turning around and running right into a tree trunk.
“Ahhhhh! Don’t eat me!”
Buddy awoke in a sweat, his fur damp in the soupy, stifling heat.
An entire platoon of the peculiar beasts stood around him, their sizes ranging from 25 Buddies in mass to freakishly large individuals sporting pairs of prodigious teeth that looked like scimitars made of bone.
“Einstein’s awake,” one of them rumbled, and the rest turned from stuffing themselves with leaves to get a better look at the Liliputian animal before them.
“What is that thing?” one of them asked.
“It’s a fun-size cheetah!” one exclaimed confidently.
“No, it’s a baby Serval!” another said. “But the color’s all wrong.”
In the distance, a giraffe poked its head above the tree line, pausing to munch on the silky pink flowers of a mimosa tree.
Buddy was saved from hungry leopards by friendly giant space aliens!
Buddy cautiously pushed himself up on his paws. These aliens did not seem interested in eating him.
“Greetings,” he said. “I am a feline, a cat from planet Earth! What planet do you come from?”
There was a pause, then trumpeting, cacaphonic laughter.
“‘What planet are you from?'” one of the great beasts mimicked, sparking a second round of giggles that sounded like the trombone section of an orchestra, if someone had slipped the players psychedelics.
“We are elephants, and this is our home,” said the leader, a magnificent female. “And you, little one, are fortunate we happened by.”
Buddy puffed himself up.
“I think you mean the leopards were lucky,” he said, flexing his meowscles. “They didn’t want to tangle with these guns.”
The elephants chortled. “Can we keep him? He’s funny!”
The matriarch shook her massive head.
“He is far from home, and he should return before he runs into leopards again, or something worse,” she said.
Buddy looked unsure of himself.
“But I’m homies with the jaguars and the tigers! I thought…you know, I could be down with the leopards too. Us big cats gotta stick together, ya know? It’s hard out there for an apex predator. By the way, got any lunch?”
One of the elephants raised her trunk, pointing east toward a herd of intimidating horned beasts.
“Lunch,” she said. “Think you can take them?”
Buddy gulped.
“Go home, little one.”
Buddy’s version of events!
“So anyway,” Buddy said, addressing his human, “that’s how I impressed the leopards, and they made me their king. In fact, they bestowed the honorific ‘Paka mkubwa na mwenye misuli hodari,’ which means ‘great and mighty muscled cat’ in Swahili!”
“Sounds like you had quite an adventure! That’s impressive, Bud!” Big Buddy said.
“It is! It is!” Buddy said, nodding vigorously.
Big Buddy made a whistling sound.
“Was that before or after you peed yourself in terror?”
“What? I…no, I told you, they made me their king! Where did you hear this, this slander?”
Big Buddy reached for his iPad, pulling up images of a terrified Little Buddy running from leopard cubs on the savanna, Buddy running head-first into a tree, and Buddy cowering before a herd of elephants.
“A wildlife tour was nearby during your ‘coronation,’ but this is probably just a gray tabby who looks exactly like you and happened to be right where you were crowned,” he said. “Congratulations, Your Meowjesty!”
Can Captain Buddy of the USS Fowl Play outsmart the Klingons once again to save his crew and salvage his nap?
USS FOWL PLAY, NCC-2014A — Captain Buddy emerged from the turbolift, batting at the wrinkles in his uniform with his paws in a fruitless attempt to look more presentable.
“Not that it matters with these nap-interrupting brutes,” he sighed. “On screen!”
The helm officer tapped a sequence into his console and an image of a scowling Klingon materialized on the ship’s view screen, replacing the view of space and the sleek Klingon Warbird that had decloaked in front of the USS Fowl Play.
“Gruthnok vupar! This is the warship Dra’akkthar of the mighty Klingon empire!” the face on the view screen snarled. “Power down your pitiful excuse for a ship and prepare to be boarded!”
Captain Buddy smiled.
“Good to see you too, Captain Hrakhuul,” he said. “How are the wife and the kids?”
Hrakhuul snorted derisively.
“Only a fool jests during the hour of his doom!” the Klingon spat. “Have you no honor?”
Captain Buddy scratched his chin fur, pretending to consider the question.
“None,” he said, “but I do have a bone to pick with you. You woke me up during nap time. Again. Not cool, Hrakhuul. Not cool.”
Captain Buddy, commanding officer of the Federation starship USS Fowl Play, Galaxy class registration NCC-2014A
Hrakhuul growled.
“Your species is insolent, lazy and takes ten naps a day!”
“Why, thank you, Captain Hrakhuul! And may I say, you’re looking particularly savage today.”
“This is your last warning, Federation cat! Power down your shields and weapons or be destroyed!”
Captain Buddy yawned.
“I think I’ll have my crew serve me turkey sandwiches instead. Yeah. Turkey over obliteration, no brainer.”
This enraged the Klingon. “Prepare to taste your own blood at the tip of my ancestral bat’leth, feline fool!”
Buddy collapsed into his captain’s chair and kicked his feet up.
“Can we just skip this and get to the part where I outsmart you and go back to my nap?”
Hrakhuul cackled maniacally.
“So your fate is sealed, then. You shall fall before the might of the Klingon Emp…”
Captain Buddy cut him off.
“I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you. This is a..an, uh…” He turned to Lieutenant Pawson, the tactical officer, whispering: “What kind of ship is this again?”
“A Galaxy class, sir. Same as the flagship.”
“A Galactic class starship!” Buddy said confidently, projecting the calm of a seasoned captain. “And we have, like, uh…”
“Sixteen phaser banks and two photon torpedo launchers, sir,” Pawson whispered helpfully.
“Lasers! Like 27 of them! And torp…er, missiles and stuff! Very powerful missiles. They make yuge explosions!”
Behind him, operations Lt. Commander Cleo hid her face in her paws.
Schemeowtics for the USS Fowl Play, Captain Buddy’s awesome starship.
“Enough of your meaningless babble,” Captain Hrakhuul barked. “Prepare to die!”
Captain Buddy’s eyes went wide with shock.
“Oh no! We have a warp core breach! Abandon all decks and get to your escape pods!”
Captain Hrakhuul snarled, fear in his eyes.
“What?!?” If you think I will fall for this again, you tribble with a tail…”
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you, Hrakkie,” he said. “You’re in the blast radius.”
Captain Buddy made a cut-off motion to the helmsman and the screen returned to its default view of a placid star field.
The bridge crew erupted into applause.
“The Klingon ship is backing up, full reverse thrusters, sir!”
Buddy cleared his throat.
“Fire a few of those proton missile things to create an explosion, then hit the gas, warp nine!”
The Captain yawned into the back of his paw as he walked toward the turbolift.
“I am returning to my nap,” he told his crew before the lift doors closed, “and anyone who interrupts me will be thrown out of an airlock!”
Dissatisfied with the limited variety of flavors and textures in his regular meal rotation, Buddy the Cat unveiled a sweeping new sanctions package designed to force his human to do better.
NEW YORK — Angry over his servant’s failure to broaden his selection of regular meals, Buddy the Cat announced new sanctions on Saturday aimed at forcing the uncooperative human to comply.
“President Buddy feels he’s been patient and magnanimous in dealing with his human’s shortcomings, but even a saint’s patience has limits,” Buddy’s spokesman told reporters. “This new sanctions package clearly communicates President Buddy’s disappointment and ensures swift compliance.”
The sanctions include prohibitive measures against sleep duration and quality, with Buddy promising to yowl at regular intervals and to wake his human by slapping him in the face every morning.
In addition, affection will be cut by 50 percent, increasing to 75 percent within two weeks if there is no improvement in the variety of flavors and textures of wet food served to Buddy.
“Buddy has made it clear that he expects more than a simple rotation of turkey, chicken and salmon pate,” the feline’s spokesman said. “He wants chunky tuna, he wants beef, he wants shredded duck served in gravy.”
President Buddy had threatened to pull his ambassadors and enact legislation declaring all shoes, sneakers and boots as legal litter boxes if the cheese sharing protocol was not observed. Credit: Wikimedia Commons
The latest round of sanctions follows the Buddesian Diplomatic Crisis of 2023, when Buddy threatened to begin using his Big Buddy’s shoes, boots and sneakers as litter boxes in retaliation for the latter failing to “equitably share cheese as per article IV, sub-clause C of the gastronomic distribution protocol.”
All-out war was avoided when both parties agreed that Little Buddy’s share of Gouda, American, provolone and other cheeses, excluding ricotta, feta and mozzarella, would be increased by 15 percent.
Pain In The Bud 