If you’re not feeling the love, you can always head to your local shelter and donate to have a cat neutered in the name of your ex!
Happy Valentine’s Day from the Buddies! Buddy Cupid, or Bupid, is currently flying around with his little bow and heart arrows, wondering why they can’t be used to shoot turkey.
He’ll figure it out soon enough, although knowing him, he’ll use his arrows to make people fall in love with him so he has an entire army of infatuated humans who would love nothing more than to feed him and cuddle him.
We hope you’re all having a great day and that you’re able to spend time with the people and pets you love most in this world.
And hey, if you’re not feeling the love, you can take the opportunity to participate in one of the many “Neuter Your Ex” promotions happening at cat shelters in Portland, Baltimore, New Jersey, Michigan and even Saskatchewan. For between $25 and $50, depending on the shelter, you’ll be given the opportunity to name a feline after the person you’d like to see, uh, fixed, and help reduce the stray cat population as a result. It’s win-win, except maybe for the person you’re imagining getting the snip.
Cats are unequaled when it comes to knocking objects over, giving them a natural talent for bowling.
DES MOINES — With his brow furrowed in concentration, the US team captain took a moment at the top of the lane to analyze the geometry of the task before him.
Satisfied that he’d correctly sized things up, he lunged forward and sent the ball barreling down the polished hardwood where it connected with a pin on the right, clipping it with just enough force to snap it toward its twin on the other side.
As both pins reverberated with a familiar clunk and the score registered a spare, teammates and spectators alike broke out into a raucous cheer.
It was business as usual for the US National Bowling Team except for one small detail: the bowler who’d just collected another spare was a domestic cat named Buddy.
Asked to summarize his feline teammate’s game, bowler Jeffrey Lebowski didn’t hesitate.
“One word,” he said. “Lights out. Actually that’s uh, that’s two words, but you get my drift, man.”
For Lebowski and his fellow bowlers, championship ambitions became reality with the meteoric rise of Buddy the Cat, who dominated the lower leagues before joining the national squad and quickly earning its captaincy.
“I’ve been knocking things over since I was a kitten,” Buddy said matter-of-factly. “Swiping objects isn’t just a hobby. For me, it’s a passion.”
Indeed, the silver tabby estimates he’s slapped tens of thousands of items off of tables, chairs, desks and counters at home over the years. He says he’s knocked his human’s smartphone to the floor more times than he can count, along with TV remotes, keys, writing instruments and beverages.
Buddy the Cat at the regional qualifiers in Dallas, Texas, in August of 2023.
He credits the latter especially with providing him with the foundation necessary to excel on the lanes.
“If you think about it, a water bottle isn’t much different than a bowling pin,” Buddy explained. “They have a similar form factor and center of gravity, and they both make a satisfying slap as they hit the floor.”
But making a career of his passion never occurred to the New York-born feline until he dozed off on the couch one day and woke up to a bowling broadcast on ESPN6.
He was instantly smitten.
“I couldn’t believe such a sport existed,” Buddy recalled. “I said to my human: ‘All this time you knew there was a competitive sport that involves my favorite thing to do besides napping and eating, and you just neglected to mention it to me?’ I mean, it doesn’t even involve any running or physical exertion whatsoever! I knew it was the sport for me.”
Jeffrey Lebowski with Buddy the Cat.
Buddy’s new teammates were skeptical at first, but when he filled in for teammate Walter Sobchak and bowled a perfect 300, they were sold.
“I told those %@#*s down at the league office that I don’t roll on Shabbos, but they scheduled us for a Friday night game anyway,” Sobchak said. “I told the league office ‘You’re entering a world of pain if we lose because I can’t roll,’ but Buddy saved our bacon. Shomer Shabbos!”
Buddy says he’s focused on leading the US team to its first championship in decades, but credits the experience for broadening his horizons. He said he’s particularly interested in getting involved in boxing “since boxes are another passion of mine.”
“Boxing sounds amazing, and I’m partial to all kinds of boxes, not just cardboard,” he said. “But first we have a world championship to win.”
Buddy didn’t get his ripped body by just laying around doing nothing. He also ate a lot of snacks to meet his protein requirements!
Dear Buddy,
I want to be as ripped and meowscular as you are. What’s your secret, Oh Great One? How do you pack on so much meowscle mass and walk around looking like Thor if Thor were a cat?
Buddy taking a break between reps at the gym.
Buddy flexing powerfully as he readies for another set of bench presses.
Respectfully,
Awestruck in Arlington
Dear Awestruck,
It’s true, I’m pretty ripped. It’s not Photoshop either. Those are 100% real feline meowscles.
I’d say you should set realistic goals for yourself first. Half of it’s genetics, and as you know I’m a Buddinese Tiger. We’re a particularly buff breed of cat.
But if you’re committed and don’t mind rigorous workouts, you can make gains like I have, my friend! They’re the result of a grueling regimen of eating, sleeping and working out.
I break my fast first thing after waking up by screeching at my human for meowscle-building treats, which are high in protein. I usually do a light workout by making a few laps around the house, then it’s time for First Nap so I can solidify my gains and let my body heal.
The rest of the day must run like a precisely tuned machine. It’s absolutely essential that you force yourself to set aside long periods of doing absolutely nothing in order for your muscles to heal and grow.
For example, after Third Snack I like to work my abdominal muscles by having my human dangle the wand toy above me when I’m laying on my back, allowing me to perform sets of rabbit kicks. When I’m feeling the burn I do another lap, maybe chirp at some birds, and then it’s nap time again to consolidate the gains and replenish my stores of energy.
Another great workout is what I call box jumps, which are exactly what they sound like: jumping in and out of boxes.
After 7th Nap and 10th Snack I’m usually wiped, which is when it’s time for pre-bedtime sleep using my human as a pillow. His body heat helps me burn more calories and fuel meowscle growth.
It’s a daunting regimen, but if you’re committed you can look like a Catdonis just like me!
Buddy, aka Graybeard, has departed for his annual adventure on the high seas aboard his ship, the Fowl Play. He really gets into talking like a pirate.
Ahoy, me hearties!
Tis that time of year when I depart the frigid coasts of me headquarters of New York bound for the pirate heaven of Somalia! ‘Tis tradition ever since me Big Buddy temporarily sold me to pirates for a hoard of booty an a jest and I spent a season learnin’ the life of a cat-o-the-sea.
Havin’ obtained me all the plunder I could carry, I returned to New York in time for the spring, rich in gold and the vocabulary of a true privateer. (And a proper cutlass too, though truth be told it were redundant with me sharp claws.) Ye landlubbers were mighty surprised!
So now I be known as Graybeard and my ship, the Fowl Play, is the Scourge o’ the Seas, makin’ sailors tremble in their boots at the sight o’ me mast with a big hulkin’ tiger eatin’ a plump turkey.
“Ahoy! Land ho! Be prepared to drop anchor, all hands to the poop deck!”
Ahoy! ‘Tis many an incautious feline captain who met the watery grave of Davy Jones’ locker fer understimatin’ the Foul Play, tis it true. Many a red ensign me plunder for the rum, many a seadog know the name o’ Ol’ Graybeard an heard it true me put a shot across they bow!
Them sons o’ biscuit eaters become sharkbait if they underestimate Graybeard, so ye better strike colors an succumb to the inevitable — that Buddy’ll strike anchor, invite hisself aboard ye vessels and help hisself to the prime booty!
Only problem is, not a spot o’ turkey to be had on the high seas, so I have me men squib the deck, get the Fowl Play shipshape and make port often to keep the turkey larders topped up for the galley, ye savvy? Anyone who raid me turkey stash be playin’ with Jack Ketch and be sure to feed the fish, if ye catch me drift!
Avast me, ol’ Graybeard’s adventures on the high seas will continue till I find the legendary pieces of eight or the grog strike me with a clap o’ thunder, I always say.
Fer legend has it that there be an island where turkeys have eight wings, each more delicious than the last, and it be Graybeard’s obsession to find this isle o’ wonders. Just imagine how awesome it would be! Arrrr…belay that! Put it in yer mind that Graybeard’ll be rich in plunder and turkey if the mythical isle be found!
I have me pigeon here who’ll carry me dispatches back to that landlubber Big Buddy, so he can continue the bloggin’ an apprise ye buckos of me adventures. Until such time as the Fowl Play make port, I’d advise ye stay off the shippin’ lanes between the kingdom and the Caribbean.
Yer captain,
Buddy
Pictured: Captain Graybeard on the deck of the Fowl Play.
If I could make my cat understand one thing, it’s that he is a chubby 11-lb house cat, NOT a hulking 600-lb tiger with “huge meowscles” who strikes fear into the hearts of every creature to walk the Earth.
Just kidding. I’m perfectly happy going along with his delusions.
The one thing I really would communicate is that we are buddies for life and I’ll never abandon him.
Buddy’s an awesome cat. He’s super friendly, curious, lively, intelligent and vocal. His antics are hilarious. He’s a good boy.
He also knows I love him. That much is abundantly clear.
Buddy the Cat, pictured, says he’s “totally ripped” under his fur.
Unfortunately he suffers from separation anxiety, which has manifested in unfortunate ways, including a track record of attacking every person who has ever been kind enough to cat sit for him.
Aside from the fact that it’s getting more difficult to arrange care for him (his usual cat sitter now sneaks in, feeds him and gets out as fast as possible since he’s attacked her twice), it sucks to know that he suffers anxiety and sadness when I’m gone.
I see his accusatory stare when I start to pack a suitcase and set food aside for the sitter to give him. And I see his little act when I come home, the way he sniffs and feigns nonchalance. The act lasts a few minutes tops before he forgets he’s supposed to be mad at me. Then he glues himself to me for the next few days, never letting me out of sight for fear of losing me.
The truth is that I feel separation anxiety from my little pal when I’m away too, but I know precisely when I’m coming home. He doesn’t have that luxury.
So Buddy, if you ever learn to read, know that you aren’t going anywhere and neither am I. The only way we’ll be separated is if someone pries you from my cold, dead fingers.
And don’t let anyone tell you you’re not a fierce tiger!
Pain In The Bud 