Most cats wouldn’t go near water if you promised them a barrel of Temptations, but a handful of special felines love to swim and play in the ocean.
Someone over at Hearst Television was digging through the company’s video archives and unearthed this gem from 30 years ago.
It’s a short news segment about Toby the cat, who liked to hang out with his human so much that he happily took to playing in the ocean.
“I’d jog on the beach at night, and he’d run into the water with me,” Toby’s human, Teddy Townsend, told Hearst.
A news crew caught up with the human-feline pair at Ormond-By-The-Sea, an oceanside community on Florida’s east coast, about an hour’s drive south of St. Augustine.
“I just started taking him out in the water,” Townsend said as Toby perched happily on his shoulder.
The surf board came later as Townsend looked for a way to make time in the water more fun for his pal.
“He surfs, I don’t surf,” Townsend explained, smiling.
Townsend didn’t have Toby on any harness or other restraint, and it was pretty clear the little guy wasn’t going anywhere without his human. Footage of the tubular tabby showed him skillfully balancing on the board while cresting and riding a series of small waves.
Check out the 1995 segment here:
Surfing cats are pretty rare, but not unheard of. A 2016 story detailed the adventures of Kuli, a one-eyed rescue cat from Honolulu who loves to surf with his humans. (Kuli is pictured in the header image, above, and in the image below.)
Kuli lost an eye at just four months old due to an infection, and endured lots of baths during his formative months to prevent another infection from taking hold. Alexandra, one of his humans, said she believes that’s why Kuli is so calm in the water.
“For a while I took Kuli out on my long boards, but it wasn’t until I was playing around with a boogie board one day that I realised he really loved to get his claws into the foamy material,” she said. “So we bought a board that Kuli would be able to get out on the surf with.”
Kuli on his board. Credit: Caters News Agency
Here at Casa de Buddy, I asked His Grace if he’d like to dip into the ocean and have fun by learning to surf.
Buddy, convinced that his human can control the weather, would like more moderate temperatures. Is that too much to ask?
A big chunk of ‘Merica has been sweltering this week, and New York has been no exception.
Tuesday was supposed to be the most brutal of the brief heat wave, but Wednesday felt the most oppressive to me, like walking through a hot soup and having no choice but to “drink” it until you can escape to the air conditioned indoors again.
The temperature was in the high 90s with a heat index of 104 thanks to the humidity. That’s the real killer: while I don’t envy parts of the southwest that see temperatures of 100+ more frequently, summers here are marked by disgustingly sweaty weather. Humidity reached 99 percent on June 2, and this week we’ve had spikes of 80 percent and higher.
As bad as it is for us, it’s worse for our furry little pals. For them it’s like wearing a jacket you can’t take off.
Poor Buddy! Is it too much to ask to have a human who can control the weather?
The Budster has been shedding like crazy the past few weeks, and I’ve been brushing him to help him get rid of that excess fur — and prevent it from “decorating” the place.
On Tuesday I decided to open the door to the balcony, mostly to see how he’d react. He loves the balcony, which offers cat TV, the opportunity to soak up the sun and take in new scents and sounds.
But with the sweltering temperature, Buddy approached the door to his beloved balcony with caution. He stepped outside, paused for a second or two, gave me a disgusted look, then turned right back around and padded inside, where he recovered from his ordeal by lounging.
Life’s tough for a cat.
Buddy in his heroic Mega-Buddy (Megaru Badi) form, in the style of Bikkuriman.
The little dude may be following Marjorie Taylor Greene on Twitter, because the look he gave me strongly suggests he thinks I can control the weather.
“It’s unacceptably brutal out there!” I imagine he’s thinking. “Fix it, human! Do I have to verbalize everything, or can you be a proper servant and anticipate my needs ahead of time?”
Of course we’re talking about a cat who refuses to set paw outside unless it’s a balmy 65 degree minimum, preferably between 73.5 and 76 degrees. No rain, no cold, definitely no snow, and no excessive heat!
Thankfully the heat broke, and today we’re forecast for a balmy 75. Cue the Sir David Attenborough voice: “But there’s a problem! A tomato plant has appeared on the balcony, and even though Buddy’s a meowscular tiger who shows no fear*, tomatoes and their vines are poisonous to him.
On the off chance that we’ve got some readers who don’t have cats, would anyone like a tomato plant?
* Buddy exhibits no fear except when it comes to rustling paper bags,vacuums, Swiffers, brooms, music intended for cats, sudden movements, floppy fish toys, loud vehicles including but not limited to trucks, outdoor animals who make scary noises, and certain kinds of cheese. But other than that, he’s totally fearless.
A new story from CNN examines how friendship with animals can enhance our spiritual lives.
If you ask Bud, I’m sure he’d agree that merely having the privilege of being friends with him is akin to a transcendental experience.
“Yes, human, by stroking my fur, you are brushing up against the divine!” he’d probably say. “Now make a proper offering, and don’t skimp out on me. I want the good snacks!”
The massive ego of my cat aside, some theologians and spiritualists say we’re in the midst of a “Great Pet Awakening,” with more people than ever welcoming animals into their homes, treating them like family, and coming to profound realizations by bonding with them.
Our pets can help us come to grips with our own mortality, amplify our own spiritual lives and even help us heal, they say. Some of it’s nebulous, including a Pew poll that found most Americans believe pets are imbued with some sort of vague supernatural energy, and some of it’s tangible, like studies that have found cat purring has a calming effect on people as well as cats.
If you’re interested in reading more, CNN’s story on the “awakening” quotes a Canadian theologian and author, a Buddhist, and, tragically, a “psychic medium.” In true grief vampire style, the latter says “pet psychics” can offer people “a chance to hear personalized messages from their pets in the Great Beyond.”
“Now leave the snack, bow, and retreat until I call for you again. That’s a good human.”
I don’t like thinking about a time when Bud will be gone, but when that day comes, if I encounter a “pet psychic” who tells me Bud sends his love and appreciation from the afterlife, it’ll reinforce my dim view of self-proclaimed mediums. If, however, the “psychic” tells me that Bud is still miffed about the times dinner was late, or he’s annoyed that I’ve adopted another cat who has inherited his toys, I’ll change my tune!
In any case, I think there’s one hugely important thing the CNN story does not touch on. It focuses on the way pets benefit people, but perhaps the most profound gift our animals give us — if we’re open to it — is a new appreciation for them, and what a miracle they are.
It’s 2025, but surprisingly, there are lots of people who are still stuck in a pre-cognitive revolution mindset, viewing animals as little more than biological automatons. They deny animal cognition, emotions and agency, as if B.F. Skinner and behaviorism remain the credible model. To do that, you’d have to ignore more than sixty years’ worth of research proving our furry friends have their own rich internal lives, their own thoughts and feelings.
Buddy’s ego may be slightly inflated.
That, to me, is one of the great things about cats. If I was a merely adequate servant, the Budster would take the free meals, the shelter and the warm bed, and ignore me until he wants something. Instead, he’s rarely more than three feet from me, he spends much of his day sitting on me or in direct physical contact, he can’t abide any barrier between us, and he expresses his love by marching up to me, purring up a storm, and rubbing his head against my face.
He chooses to do that, and it tells me that for all the boneheaded mistakes I’ve made, I must be doing a pretty decent job. He’s not my property, he’s my Buddy.
Is the human a bad influence on the cat, is the cat a bad influence on the human, or are they both just crazy?
NEW YORK — Big Buddy and Little Buddy experienced an awkward moment while watching a cat documentary which claimed feline personalities eventually come to resemble the dispositions of their humans.
The human and tabby were sitting on their couch, eating popcorn and laughing at their own farts when Holly Sikes, a cat behaviorist interviewed in the documentary, broke down the way people and their furry pals mirror each other.
“So, for example, if the cat is a lazy, egotistical jerk who’s always coming up with hare-brained schemes, he obviously learned that from someone,” the behaviorist said. “And that someone is the primary caretaker, the one with whom the cat spends most of his or her time.”
The Buddies looked at each other, shrugging.
“I once had a client whose cat, Quintus Lentilus Batiatus, was an absolute lunatic,” Sikes continued in the documentary. “And it turned out the owner was a LARPer who belonged to a group of wannabe Roman legionaries, which explained why little Quintus had declared war on the German family next door, labeling them ‘barbarians and savages who must be civilized under the banner of the Sacred Eagle.’ I’ve heard of cats styling themselves as Mongol conquerors, Spartan warriors and even kings of Joseon.”
Little Buddy stopped chewing, and with a mouth full of popcorn, turned to his Big Buddy.
“I’m, uh, not feeling this documentary, dude,” he said. “Let’s find something else to watch.”
“Agreed,” Big Buddy said.
The behaviorist continued to elaborate as Big Buddy searched for the remote.
“…and delusions of grandeur, particularly when it comes to fantasies about conquering the world, being famous, or even establishing ties with big cats like jaguars and tigers…”
Little Buddy’s voice was urgent.
“Where’s the remote, dude? Come on! Find it!”
“I’m trying! Where the heck is it?”
“…and we find that in cases where human and feline are closely bonded, they serve as enablers, with each convincing the other that their schemes are brilliant even when they’re gobsmackingly inane…”
Big Buddy grunted triumphantly.
“Found it!” he said.
Human and cat breathed a sigh of relief as the stream stopped.
“So what do you wanna watch next, Bud?” Big Buddy asked.
Little Buddy sat up and stretched.
“Actually, I was thinking of taking another nap and then working on my brilliant plan to intercept catnip shipments bound for pet stores.”
Big Buddy whistled.
“That is a brilliant plan, little guy,” he said.
“It is, isn’t it?” Little Buddy said proudly.
“Good call on the nap too. I’ll set my alarm for 90 minutes. Gotta get that beauty sleep…”
As of press time, the Buddies had settled on a scheme to intercept catnip and turkey bound for pet stores, which they both agreed was brilliantly conceived and guaranteed to work.
Cats and dogs communicate primarily by scent, touch and body language, but human efforts to understand them have focused exclusively on meows and barks. If we want to truly understand our non-human friends, we need to take an approach that considers the other ways animals “talk” to each other.
A few years ago when MeowTalk made a minor splash in the startup world, I was pretty bullish on its potential to help us understand our cats better.
Sure, the app had an unhelpful habit of attributing improbably loving declarations to Buddy, but I thought it would follow the trajectory of other machine learning models and drastically improve as it accumulated more data.
More users meant the app would record and analyze more meows, chirps and trills, meaning it was just a matter of time before the AI would be able to distinguish between an “I want attention!” meow and a “My bowl is dangerously close to empty!” meow.
Obviously that didn’t happen, and what I personally didn’t take into account back then — and should have, given how obvious it is in retrospect — is that cats don’t just communicate via vocalizations.
In fact, cats don’t normally incorporate vocalizations into communication at all. Pet kitties do it entirely for our benefit because they know we’re generally awful at interpreting body language and we are completely useless when it comes to olfactory information.
It’s actually amazing when you really think about how much of the heavy lifting cats do in our efforts to communicate with each other. They recognize we can’t communicate the way they do naturally, so they try to relate to us on our terms. In return, we meet them less than halfway.
No wonder Buddy sometimes looks frustrated as he meows at me, as if I’m the biggest moron in the world for not understanding the very obvious thing he’s trying to tell me.
“Human, how can you not understand the simple feeling of innerer schweinehund I’m trying to convey here? The cringe is killing me!”
Now the Chinese tech giant Baidu is throwing its hat into the ring after filing a patent in China for an AI system that uses machine learning to decode animal communication and “translate” it to human language.
Machines are designed to process things from a human viewpoint according to human logic, so if Baidu wants to succeed where MeowTalk has not, its engineers will need to take a thoughtful approach with the help of animal behavior experts.
This is a hard problem that encompasses animal cognition, neuroscience, linguistics, biology, biochemistry and even philosophy. If they approach this strictly as a tech challenge, they’ll set themselves up for failure.
Without the information and context clues provided by tails, whiskers, facial expressions, posture, eye dilation, heart rate, pheromones and even fur, an AI system is only getting a fraction of the information cats are trying to convey.
Trying to glean meaning from that is like trying to read a book in which only every fourth or fifth letter is legible. There’s just too much missing information.
Even if we can train machines to analyze sound visual, tactile and olfactory information, it may not be possible to truly translate what our cats are saying to us. We may have to settle for approximations. We’ve only begun to guess at how the world is interpreted differently among human beings thanks to things like qualia and neurodivergence, and the way cats and dogs see the world is undoubtedly more strange to us than the way a neurodivergent person might make sense of reality.
“He grimaced. He had drawn a greedy old character, a tough old male whose mind was full of slobbering thoughts of food, veritable oceans full of half-spoiled fish. Father Moontree had once said that he burped cod liver oil for weeks after drawing that particular glutton, so strongly had the telepathic image of fish impressed itself upon his mind. Yet the glutton was a glutton for danger as well as for fish. He had killed sixty-three Dragons, more than any other Partner in the service, and was quite literally worth his weight in gold.” – Cordwainer Smith, The Game of Rat and Dragon
An animal’s interpretation of reality may be so psychologically alien that most of its communication may be apples to oranges at best. Which is why I always loved Cordwainer Smith’s description of the feline mind as experienced via a technology that allows humans with special talents to share thoughts with cats in his classic short story, The Game of Rat and Dragon.
In the story, humans are a starfaring civilization and encounter a threat in the void between stars that people don’t have the reaction speed to deal with. Cats, however, are fast and swift enough, and with a neural bridge device, teams of humans paired with cats are able to keep passengers safe on interstellar journeys.
The narrator, who is one of the few people with an affinity for teaming up with felines, hopes he’ll be paired with one of his two favorite cats for his latest mission, but instead he’s assigned to partner with an old glutton of a tomcat whose mind was dominated by “slobbering thoughts of food, veritable oceans of half-spoiled fish.”
The narrator wryly notes that the last time one of his colleagues was paired with that particular cat, his burps tasted of fish for weeks afterward. But the cat in question, despite being obsessed with fish, is a badass at killing “dragons,” the human nickname for the bizarre entities that attack human ships in space. (The software that allows felines and humans to link thoughts also portrays the “dragons” as rodents in the minds of the cats, stimulating their ancient predatory drive so they’ll attack instantly when they see the enemy.)
We can’t know for sure if Smith’s interpretation of the feline mind is accurate, but another part rang true when he wrote that cat thoughts were all about the moment, filled with sentiments of warmth and affection, while they rapidly lost interest in thoughts about human concerns, dismissing them “as so much rubbish.”
If the mind of a cat is that relatable, we’ll be incredibly lucky. But in reality we’re dealing with animals who evolved in drastically different ecological niches, with different priorities, motivations, and ways of looking at the world — literally and figuratively.
That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to understand our furry friends. Research has yielded interesting information about the way animals like whales and elephants communicate, and AI is at its best when it augments human creativity and curiosity instead of trying to replace it.
Even if we don’t end up with a way to glean 1:1 translations, the prospect of improving our understanding of animal minds is tantalizing enough. We just need to make sure we’re listening to everything they’re saying, not just the meows.
Pain In The Bud 