Category: turkey

Buddy Gets A Reading From A Pet Psychic!

Did you know there are pet psychics?

They prefer to be called animal communicators, which makes their work sound more professional and less hokey, but the services they offer are pretty much identical to those offered by regular psychics, mediums, sorcerers and wizards. Per the totally legitimate site SheKnows.com:

Put simply, animal communication is a silent, telepathic language that functions via deepened intuition. Animal communicators are very much in tune with this ability and use it to have a dialogue with an animal. Animal communication is not about deciphering an animal’s body language or behavior, though. It’s an actual exchange of information between the communicator and animal in the form of words, mental images, feelings and more.

Buddy and I have several different means of communication: In the early morning hours he tells me he wants me to wake up by standing on my face and meowing into my ear, and I tell him to shut up and go back to sleep by throwing pillows at him.

By late afternoon Bud begins his daily ritual, communicating to me that dinner time is fast approaching and failure to serve yums on time will result in even louder and more annoying meows. I respond by threatening to sell him to the nearest Chinese food restaurant.

Clearly, we communicate well!

But could an animal communicator facilitate even better ways of exchanging information that don’t include vulgarities, face-walkings and late night ambushes?

We set out to ascertain the truth.

Pet Psychic Jana Melhoopen-Jonks
Paris Hilton consults Jana Melhoopen-Jonks, the famous pet psychic to the stars.

Animal Communicator # 1: The Long Island XL

Length of session: 42 seconds

Comments: “Relax your chakras. Open your inner eye and heart to the quantum energies of my chi. Okay. Good. Now I’m going to connect our minds. Oh my…Ugh. I’m getting an overwhelming stench. It’s…fish. And poultry. An ocean’s worth of salmon and enough turkey to feed a small country. More fish. More turkey. The clucking of a million portly birds, thousands of pounds of slimy salmon overwhelming my olfactory senses…I’m drowning in it. Oh God! Help me! Help me! Pull me out!”

Buddy’s comments: *BURP* She was pretty accurate.

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Animal Communicator #2: Edward John, animal telepath

Length of session: 18 minutes

Edward John: So this is your cat, Buster?

Me: His name is Buddy.

Edward John: Okay, so you want me to talk to little Bubba here and have him tell me what he’s thinking?

Me: Uh yeah, the usual. I want to know if he’s happy living with me, what he likes, and what I can do for him to make it even better.

Edward John: Okay. I’m performing the Vulcan mind-meld now. My mind to your mind…it is logical to accept the connection.

Oh my. He’s a ferocious little guy, isn’t he, your Bubba? I’m getting images showing him prowling the neighborhood…

Me: He doesn’t go outside.

Edward John: …prowling the living room, serving as enforcer to the other cats in the house…

Me: He’s an only cat.

Edward John: Right. I knew that. Now I’m seeing fleeting images of a female cat, a neighbor’s cat. Buster sired a litter with her…

Me: Buddy was neutered at 5 months old.

Edward John: …but he revealed he’d been neutered, so he couldn’t be the father, which is why they brought Smudge next door for a paternity test and he’s the baby daddy.

Edward John: Okay, your cat’s speaking directly to me now! He says he’s sorry he doesn’t meow much, but he promises to meow with joy if you feed him more tuna.

Me: He hates tuna, and the problem isn’t getting him to talk, it’s getting him to stop. He treats me to nightly dissertations, rendered in meow, on theoretical physics and the creamy texture of smoked Gouda.

Edward John: Whatever. That’ll conclude our 18-minute session at the low price of $350. We can keep going for only $39.95 per additional minute if you’d like me to continue probing Barry’s mind.

Me: I think Barry, Bubba, Buster and I are good. Thanks, Edward.

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Animal Communicator #3: Alison Doobwah, Medium

Length of session: 21 minutes

Alison: Okay, something’s coming through. I’m seeing a house. It could be white, or gray or maybe a light blue or tan. Does that sound familiar?

Me: No. We live in an apartment building.

Alison: Okay, I feel like he’s telling me he wants turkey. Does turkey mean anything to you?

Me: Yes, it’s all over the blog. It’s his favorite food. Not exactly a secret. Anyone could have looked it up.

Alison: A skeptic, huh? All right. I’m getting images, visualizations from the quantum reality, echoes of someone whose name begins with a D. Maybe Dave, Doris, Devon, Dirk, Debbie, Darren, Delilah or Decker?

Me: Nope. Neither of us know any Dorises, Devons, Dirks or Deckers.

Alison: Dominic? Diego? Dorian? Maybe Dakota or Desmond?

Me: No. Sorry.

Alison: Maybe an H? Oh, or a G? Does Buddy know a Greg, Gary, Gerald, Geordi or Gerrit?

Me: No.

Alison: What about grandma or grandpa?

Me: I had grandparents! That’s amazing! And my mom is like a grandmother to Buddy. Your intuition is outstanding!

Alison: I’m just reading the images I get from the astral plane. I’m merely the vessel through which the chakras broadcast their quantum energies and reveal their secrets.

Me: Makes total sense. What else?

Alison: He says he wants more toys. He says the snack selection in your home is sub-par, and that if you really love him, you’ll put more effort into buying a more diverse array of treats. He also says he wants a cat condo. In fact, he says he’s brought this topic up before, and he’s disappointed in your failure to follow through. Regarding sleeping arrangements, he says he’d like you to cut down on tossing and turning during the night, because you’re his mattress and excess movement disturbs his sleep. On the subject of wet food, he feels you don’t serve him turkey as much as he’d like, and that poultry should ideally be followed up with seafood. Regarding the vacuum…

Me: Okay, okay.  Enough. I get it.

Alison: But there’s more! He says…

Me: Any more complaints and he can tell them to the cooks at Szechuan Garden II. Comprende?

Alison: I think he just pooped in your shoe.

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Buddy Reads Internet Comments

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!

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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…

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[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!

buddy_delicious
“A whole year’s supply of turkey! I hit the jackpot!”

The Cat Who Ate The Turkey

Buddy has a new hero.

Heather Ziegler, a columnist for a local newspaper in West Virginia, recalls a Thanksgiving from her teenage years made memorable by her cat helping himself to the turkey:

My mother had taken the huge frozen turkey and placed it on top of the [freezer] to begin the thawing process several days before Thanksgiving. By the grace of God, we all survived this process over the years.

However, this particular year was a first for our family. A day or so before Thanksgiving, my mother went to retrieve the turkey. A scream was heard, peppered with a few harmless curse words. At some point, the family cat had discovered the turkey and had begun to enjoy a pre-Thanksgiving meal. The turkey was ruined and it was too late to thaw another bird.

The story has a happy ending of sorts: Heather’s mom and dad took all twelve (!) of their children out to dinner, where they were joined by their young cousins, whose police officer father had been shot a few days earlier and remained hospitalized. Thanks to the crafty cat, those kids had the comfort of their extended family on a difficult holiday.

Since then, Ziegler writes, The Turkey Incident has become a fondly-remembered bit of family lore.

As regular readers of Pain In The Bud know, turkey is Buddy’s favorite food in the universe.

Why turkey, and why not chicken, beef, salmon, duck or tuna? Who knows? He’s loved it since kittenhood and would eat turkey all the time if he could.

Thankfully he won’t be putting a damper on Thanksgiving: I don’t eat meat, and my aunt hosts Thanksgiving in her house. But maybe it’s time for a special turkey treat for the good boy in the form of Thanksgiving leftovers.

Cat and Turkey!
This silver tabby (not Buddy) can’t wait to get his paws on leftover turkey. Photo credit: Nick Strate

The Torturing: A Fowl Famine, Episode I (Buddy’s 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.
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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?!

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It’s Time For A Diet

The people who know us best instinctively know how to push our buttons. So naturally my brother knows one of the easiest ways to get me riled up is to tell me my cat is a porker.

“Buddy’s looking like he’s put on the pounds,” he’ll say casually. “How much are you feeding this cat?”

“Buddy is NOT fat!” I’ll reply indignantly. “It just looks that way because he’s meatloafing.”

“No, I’m pretty sure he’s just fat.”

Well now he may be right. Buddy isn’t exactly fat, but he’s on the wrong side of skinny and a few bags of Temptations away from being kinda chubby. Now is the time to nip this in the Bud and bring his weight back down before it, uh, balloons.

(Above: Buddy in super-chonk meatloaf pose, left, and Buddy in a photo taken a few days later. The way a cat sits or stands can dramatically change the way his or her body looks.)

The problem is, Buddy has mastered the art of the guilt trip.

When he’s legitimately hungry he isn’t shy about meowing for his meals, but what he does in between meals is much worse. When I head into the kitchen for a beverage or a snack, Buddy will pad right up to the doorway and stop, looking at me with his big, expectant eyes. His gaze will follow me as he sits there all hopeful.

And if I leave the kitchen without opening his treat cabinet, those big green eyes become accusatory, as if I’ve committed a profound betrayal of his trust by not giving him the ultra-processed kitty crack he loves.

It’s the complete silence that gets me. No meows, no complaints, just dead silence and those big eyes.

Buddy the Handsome Cat
“That’s a tasty looking snack you’ve got there. Where’s Buddy’s treats? You thought of Buddy, right? You would never forget about me…”

Worse yet, he’ll park himself right next to me and watch me eat a bowl of cereal or a cookie, continuing the silent act. What kind of horrible Big Buddy gets a snack for himself but not his Little Buddy?

So yeah. It’s diet time.

Buddy doesn’t know the dreaded D-word. He’s about to learn. But his diet may be harder on me than it is on him.