Taking The Cat To The VetLeaving Cats When You Go On HolidayHokey and PokeyCat Stages In a RelationshipMars Probe Finds KittensEx-Cat JokesCat QuotesTop Ten Signs That You Are A "Crazy Cat Lady"Cat Roller PoopiesCat Heaven
Taking The Cat To The Vet
Leaving Cats When You Go On Holiday
Hokey and Pokey
Cat Stages In a Relationship
Mars Probe Finds Kittens
Ex-Cat Jokes
Cat Quotes
Top Ten Signs That You Are A "Crazy Cat Lady"
Cat Roller Poopies
Cat Heaven
Previous Page
Next Page
Big Joke List
Has anyone had to take a cat to the Vet? On public transport?
I did, and it was probably the most harrowing experience of my life except for when I had a spectacular bowel disorder. My cat had a Sheep Tick lodged on his head, that could not be removed, so I decided to take him to the vet. When I had bought the cat, I'd also bought a cat basket made from stout wicker for this very purpose.
I went to the closet and took out the basket, but Cat saw it and gave me a cocky, head on one side, look that said, quite simply, "If you think I am going to humiliate myself by putting my fine, furry body in that, you can shove it up your arse, mate"
So I put the basket on the table, and picked up the cat, cooing soft, gentle phrases that would have calmed down one of those dogs that are banned and owned by people with their names tatooed on their foreheads in mirror writing. Cat started to purr, albeit suspiciously. However, as soon as I got him near the door of the basket, his limbs shot so wide that he was clawing at both sides of the room simultaneously. There followed two minutes of what seemed like fighting with an angry furry octopus with more claws than Geronimo's necklace and the temper of Don King with his german helmet caught in his fly.
"Come on, puss, go in"
"Meow"
"Please...ouch"
"Hiss....snarl"
"Get in you fat f**king furry f**ker"
"Meeoooow...growl..."
etc..etc..
Eventually I succeeded, because I am over 6 feet and 200 pounds. But I had been scratched so much that I looked like I'd had Freddy Krueger round for tea and angered him with a comment about his mother's facial hair. So, I took him to the bus stop and waited in the queue. Cat sat with his paws folded with an expression of loathing disgust, planning his ultimate revenge.... We got on the bus and sat down. It was the usual group of afternoon, off-peak passengers; Old ladies because they could travel for free and spotty adolescents going to burgle houses. For the first few minutes, Cat kept quiet, shuffling about a little, and licking his bottom. Then it started.
"meow..."
"Meowwwww..."
"M E E O O W....WOOOOOOO....WOWOWOWO.....MEEEEEEEOOOWW...grrrrroowwwwlll"
The old lady next to me was rather startled. I think she thought it was an Air-Raid siren, and she started mumbling "Old Fritz is at it again and my Arthur was never the same after they shot one of his balls off" But it soon became apparent to everyone on the bus that it was Cat who was making the racket. Spotty kid at the back took his Walkman headphones off.
Then came the bombshell. It started as the faintest whiff - the merest zephyr of cat shite wafting up my nose. It's worth pondering for a moment what goes on in a cats devilish insides. Consider what goes in at the front end. Certain brands of cat food in the UK have recently been classified as "fit for human consumption". But if I came home after a hard day at the office and found a tin of that laid out for my dinner there would be a great deal of shouting and a trip to the lawyer's. Cat food is vile. There is a common bond that is shared across humanity - everyone in the whole world, when opening a tin of cat food before breakfast shouts "Oh Jesus F**king Christ" when they get a whiff of it. Even Arabs. So, considering the material a cat has to work with, coupled with a set of bile organs developed by Lucifer himself, you can understand why I was sitting on a bus surrounded by people looking like they were entrants in a Face Pulling & Pointing competition. And then came the urine.
Yokshire, in North England (where I live) has recently suffered a drought. In an attempt to resolve the situation, Yorkshire Water Limited had to draft in hundreds of water tankers to top up the depleted resevoirs. They needn't have bothered. All they had to do was couple a pipeline to my cat's wang, erect a sizable distilling facility and provide gas masks to the local residents. I have never seen as much urine come from a living being. I've giggled at horses relieving themselves in fields, and I've seen an elephant taking an impressive leak in a TV programme. But they are insignificant compared to the amount of fluid that a cat can hold when it's angry. Steven Hawking alone can contemplate the multi-dimensionality that allows my 16 pound cat to store gallons of water in its zeppelin of a bladder.
Of course, wicker baskets do not hermetically seal.
So the fluid ran straight on to my trousers. My khaki, summer trousers. The crotch of my trousers. It was way before my stop, but I just had to get off the bus because people were starting to threaten me between retches. I walked down the aisle, dripping with wee, holding a caterwauling ball of furry anger in a basket.
I had to walk about a mile to the Vet's, with people looking straight at the dark, damp patch that was my crotch. It was very difficult to retain my dignity. When I got to the Vet's, the man took one look at the cat, whipped out some tweezers and had the Tick removed in an instant. Presenting me with a bill that was large enough to buy food for a platoon of hungry soldiers with tapeworms, he said "You could have removed that at home - you needn't have made the effort to come all the way here".
The next thing he said was "Ouch - there's no need for th...", followed by "Oh Jesus, my plums", and rounding off with "That bill has got to be paid -- it's no good wiping your crotch with it".
By Matthew Gaunt
matthewg@firtree.u-net.com
Peridodically, we all need to go on holiday. Being British, thoughts inevitably turn to Europe. Sun-drenched Mediterranean coastal bays, free-flowing wine, sparkling swimming pools, beaches draped with soiled Union Jack condoms and lots of drunken fighting - it makes a man happy to be alive. However, there is always a cloud on the horizon, and in this case it took the form of a tabby and a black & white, and what to do with them for two weeks. They both knew we were planning a holiday from the moment I arrived home with the brochures and they promptly sat on them. Although it is said that cats can't form facial expressions, I could read their saddened faces like a book. Like a child on Christmas morning who's just unwrapped an anthology of biblical fables, hidden craftily inside a Nintendo 64 box.
My wife tried to console the tabby, stroking his head: "There, there...don't worry...you'll have a great time at the kennels" His thoughts were obvious. "Oh yes, a great time. We'll get our heads kicked in again by that big ginger bastard who's still got his plums." "Yeeeeees...and you'll be able to be with all those lady cats again." "Well I won't be bloody able to do anything with them, will I? Not since you had our spuds whipped off, you vicious bitch. Have you any idea of how insulting a midnight chorus of ‘Tabby can't get a woody' can be? Maybe we can just hold paws or something. Me-f**king-ow. Anyway, I'd rather go upstairs and moult on your clean underwear pile".
There was one benefit on leaving at this particular time. The cats were starting to moult. Anyone who has ever lived with a cat who is moulting will know the absurd amount of hair that a cat can actually lose in the approach to summer. The state of our house during moulting season puts you in mind of a 1970's Army barbers shop floor if The Jackson Five had ever been drafted. I could annually stuff a quilt. And the bloody stuff gets everywhere. I've been getting into the bathtub before now, and had to pause first to tease a few inexplicable tabby wisps from the crack of my bottom. But, you would surely think that the modern vacuum cleaner would cope with a few cat hairs. Our twin turbo super electro vac could easily whip off a tightly glued wig, but point it at a sofa covered in cat hairs, and a few seconds later the motor smokes, whimpers, then belches last week's cat litter spillage all over the cushions.
I made the arrangements for the kennels. After hours of poring over the Yellow Pages, I decided upon the advertisement which had a picture of a beaming cat, with the lie "reasonable rates" printed underneath. The woman I spoke to on the telephone actually sounded like a cat. She gave the impression that she'd much prefer to go in each kennel in the evening, stick her bottom in the air and shout "Wiaooooooo", than be cleaning out litter trays on a daily basis. But finally the dates were arranged.
And eventually, slowly, the holiday date came around. Oh, the joy of the last day at work before a holiday. It's so difficult not to look smug as you leave. When the clock ticked to five-thirty, and I had carefully hidden my preferred pens and mouse mat, I skipped out of the office like Bambi, and drove home. Now we were ready to go. We had everything we needed for the trip. Camera, sun cream, and various remedies for "Tummy upset". (Point of note - none of these actually work. You still end up spending hours on the lavatory groaning "Oh Please God make it stop coming out" whilst your partner paces up and down outside shouting "For the Love of the Lord get a move on in there, I can't nip these buttocks together a moment longer and I'm wearing your shorts").
All that remained was to get the cats to the kennels. I thought I had this one nailed. Our pet doors have a cunning mechanism that allows you to make them one-way. Cats can come in, but not go out again. So, all I had to do was set the doors in that mode, and wait. In practise, however, what really happened was that the cats gambolled merrily outside, occasionally sticking their noses against the window and shouting "Loser" in cat language. There was no alternative, I had to go out into the garden and catch them. This started out being a bit of fun, until one of the cats disappeared under the hedge - his favourite toilet location - and the spot where my wife had tenderly nurtured some delicate roses. I had to get him out before it was too late.... I haven't been getting on very well with my neighbours recently. We live in an adjoining house, and I believe I can trace the start of the discord - somewhere around the time I used my wife's library ticket to borrow "How to learn to play the drums using only your household pots and pans". However, any trace of reconciliation was shortly to go out of the window, and it was so unfair. You see, I genuinely didn't realise that my neighbour was inches away from me - grubbing around in his side of the hedgerow with a trowel, getting his balding, wispy pate all covered in leaves. All I knew was that I desperately wanted my cat to go back in the house before he made his latrine, and therefore a raucous shout of "For f**k's sake don't you dare shit under my hedge you ugly moulting bastard" seemed perfectly justified in the circumstances.
It worked, too. Whether the cat was more frightened by my outburst or the subsequent one from my neighbour was unclear, but one of the cats bolted back to the house, with the other hot on his tail.
In a previous story, I have described the nightmare of getting a cat to go into a cat basket when he doesn't want to. I have no wish to go through the pain of the memory again. It's enough to say that during the procedure, you will come to learn how much your humble nose can actually hurt when it's got a couple of claws in it, and your cat will do more growling than Grizzly Adams applying his haemorrhoid ointment.
At last it was done - both cats boxed up in their stout wicker baskets, looking angrier than a WWF wrestler who's just discovered that he performed his last bout with a post-it note saying "I am a homo and my mother farts" stuck to his back.
I put them in the back of the car. My wife and three-year old son jumped in as well, everyone put their seatbelts on, and I had a quick look around. Everyone buckled up, with my son giggling delightedly saying "Pippin and Tog are in the car".
The journey started off well. I knew exactly where we were going, and it wasn't a long haul. The sun was shining, and everyone was content. Except, that is, for the two prisoners on the back seat. As we drove, I started to hear low growling and murmuring. Then - the worst sound of all - claws going to work on wicker. I decided to ignore it.
Conversation is essential in a car, and, depending on whether or not our son is present, our conversation is either on along the lines of "Did you see that Big Red Fire Engine going ‘toot toot' down the road?", or "Look at that twat in that Ford haven't you got any indicators on that bloody thing you clueless f**ker". However, the next two words my son said were probably the most grave that had ever been spoken in that car. He was so amused he could barely get the words out between giggles, and he quite clearly didn't appreciate the magnitude of what he said.
"Pippin's out".
I span round to look at what was going on, and immediately got a face full of cat. I desperately tried to see the road, peering over the top of a mouth full of angry tabby wrapped around my chops. "MffmffmFFFF", I yelped, to which my son replied "Tog's out as well, Daddy".
The other cat had seen what his brother was doing, and also leapt up onto my seat back. My head was now completly engulfed by fur and claws, and it looked like I was wearing two really angry Russian hats. An elderly gentlemen who was leisurely overtaking us caught a glimpse of my huge wriggling furry beard and spat out his dentures.
With my wife reaching over to grab the steering wheel, I eventually managed to pull the cats off my head, but it was quite clear they weren't in a mood for curling up and going to sleep. This was a shame, and unusual. There is a lesson to be learned from cats in the sleeping department. It can be the sunniest, brightest day, and you can be playing your stereo so loudly that your deaf neighbours come round and complain about it in sign language, and yet your cat will saunter into the room, curl up by the sub-woofer, and drift off to sleep instantly. Three minutes later he will decandently stick his legs in the air and dribble a bit. Five minutes later his whiskers will twitch. Ten hours later he'll reluctantly shuffle up off his arse and go to eat a plate of food only slightly smaller than him.
Anyway, that was not happening now. The damn things were more lively than James Brown after a refreshing holiday and a course of Ginseng, and were performing a wall of death around the car windows. Until one of them decided that he'd had enough, and was going to hide. Under the brake pedal. Now here was a problem. We were travelling at 70mph on the motorway, and the only way I could stop the car was by flattening a cat. Since I didn't fancy having tears from wife and child throughout the holiday, I had to find another way of stopping the car, and the only thing I could think of was the handbrake. Personally, I thought it was quick thinking. But moments later, when my wife was peeling her nose from the windscreen and massaging the seat belt weals in her shoulder, the only thanks I got was "You stupid knobhead" whispered right in my ear. I took my trouser belt off, put both the cats in one basket, and fastened the belt around it tighter than it had ever been fastened. Including immediately after Christmas dinner (when it is so tight that the leather turns white and makes creaking noises). My wife put the basket on her knee, and we set off again.
"Let the cats out again, Daddy" "No."
We arrived at the kennels. The woman who I had spoken to on the telephone came out to meet us, and I was astonished to find that she actually looked like a cat. When I think of her now, I actually picture her with a great bushy tail, which started swishing moodily when I asked to pay with my Visa card.
We walked over to the kennel area. I have never seen as many cats in one place in my life. They all froze in mid-preen as we entered the area and I felt a hundred green eyes burning into us. Then they started chattering. Quite obviously they were fascinated by our arrival, and were presumably making scathing comments about the quality of our cats' fur (cat fur is of incredible quality, but you never see Vidal Sassoon producing a new brand with "Contains Cat Spit" flashed all over the box). However, because of the time of year, every cat in sight was moulting. All Tele Salvalas would have had to do is stick a bit of glue on his bonce and rummage his head around in a few of the kennels. He'd have had a freshly carpeted thatch in seconds.
I couldn't wait to get out, but my wife and son wanted to spend some time saying "good bye" to our two, which predictably didn't get a tearful response. The two cats sat looking disinterested, sniffing grumpily at the bowls of food in front of them and turning their nose up because it wasn't their favoured brand of that particular hour. Eventually we got back in the car. The kennel's proprietor gave us a jaunty flick of her tail, with a cheery "They'll be fine, and they'll be looking forward to seeing you again".
We had a wonderful holiday, enjoying the usual five "S"s - sun, sea, sand, sickness and stolen wallet, and I came back home feeling refreshed and invigorated with my lightly tanned skin and purged bowels. Immediately after our arrival, my wife and son wanted to go pick up the cats, insisting that they'd have been missing us.
We drove back to the kennels, with my wife frantic about the state of the cats. This was starting to wear a little thin, and I got a bit snappy. "Yes they'll be fine for God's sake and no they are not your babies - I'd like to have seen you breastfeed those two on the bus", which predictably didn't go down to well. When we got to the kennels, I paid an amount of money which would have kept a Third World family in food and footwear for generations, and got our cats back. "Oooooh" squeaked my wife, happy to see them. On the way home, the cats sat quietly in their baskets, presumably knowing that they would shortly be returning to a place where there were no restrictions on the damage they could do.
When we got home, our neighbour welcomed us back with a tight, thin smile. However, even that disappeared when he noticed that one of our cats had scooted under the hedge and was, with a quivering tail and a very serious expression, shitting on his rhubarb.
By Matthew Gaunt
matthewg@firtree.u-net.com
As briefly as possible: Hokey and Pokey were litter mates in a third generation of heavily inbred cats. Though we named 'em at birth, it turned out that while Hokey was high-strung and affectionate (and jet black), Pokey was--uh, retarded (and mostly white, with black splotches). You could accidentally step on Pokey, and he'd look up at you as if to say "why me?"
The fun came when Hokey would do stuff (always involving water) to Pokey while we were out. Two funniest incidents: Hokey got Pokey into the bathtub (an old four-footed job), reached down with his paw and turned on the water. We came home to the sound of running water, and poor Pokey in about an inch of water (good thing the drain was open!). Even better, Hokey got Pokey to walk on the toilet seat (with the lid up) and Pokey fell in. We come home to the sound of pitful meows and a the sight of Pokey with his lower half in the water. Hokey ALWAYS had this look that said "Boy! Do I have a stupid brother or what!".
But they worked together on my favorite incident. The house was old, and the closet in which we kept storage boxes had a door that didn't fit quite right. The cats could turn a paw upside down under the door and pull it open, and they loved to play in there. One day we came home to find the door open and the contents of the closet looking like a tornado had struck. What was priceless was the look on the cats as they coolly came out of the room with the closet BEFORE we even saw the damage. The look said "What you are about to see was done by OTHER CATS! Mean, tough cats from outside of the neighborhood. Heaven knows we tried to stop them, but they were too mean and tough!"
A dog couldn't hide guilt to save its life, but a cat? The ultimate liars!
Come to think of it, I remember the look on their mother's face when she tried to jump onto the molding above a doorway. She landed on it, but since it was only a half-inch wide, she fell off immediately. But her LOOK said "Of course I knew I couldn't land there--I was just showing YOU that it couldn't be done."
By Gerry McDowall.
The idea from this was taken from an article by Colin McEnroe, a columnist for the Hartford Courant. I think it's pretty funny.
A MAN, A WOMAN, AND A CAT: STAGES IN A RELATIONSHIP
At the beginning of a relationship...
Woman: Darling, I'd like you to meet my cat.
Man: (under his breath: Ugh. I hate cats.) Uh, hi. Nice kitty.
As the relationship progresses...
Woman: Dear, I get the impression that you don't like my cat.
Man: That's ridiculous. I love Poopsie. (under his breath: This cat is ruining our relationship.)
As the relationship reaches a more stable level...
Woman: Oh, Poopsie looks just so cute sitting there on your lap.
Man: (Darn thing's shedding all over my new suit.) Well, I guess she's not so bad.
Later...
Woman: I swear, you like that cat more than you like me.
Man: You know that's not true. I can't help it if she follows me around all the time.
The final stages...
Man: Honey, have you seen my cat anywhere?
Woman: What do you mean, your cat?
By Sarah L Lewis.
The newly arrived probe to Mars has returned irrefutable evidence that the red planet is populated with approximately 27 million 3-month-old kittens.
These "kittens" do not give birth and do not die, but are locked in a state of eternal kittenhood. Of course, without further investigation, scientists are reluctant to call the chirpy little creatures kittens.
"Just because they look like kittens and act like kittens is no reason to assume they are kittens," said one researcher. "A football is a brown thing that bounces around on grass, but it would be wrong to call it a puppy."
Scientists at first were skeptical that a kitten-type being could exist in the rare Martian atmosphere. As a test, two Earth kittens were put in a chamber that simulated the Martian air. The diary of this experiment is fascinating:
6:02 AM: Kittens appear to sleep.
7:02 AM: Kitten wakes, darts from one end of the cage to
another for no apparent reason.
7:14 AM: Kitten runs up wall of cage, leaps onto other kitten
for no apparent reason.
7:22 AM: Kitten lies on back and punches other kitten for no
apparent reason.
7:30 AM: Kitten leaps, stops, darts left, abruptly stops,
climbs wall, clings for two seconds, falls on head;
darts right for no apparent reason.
7:51 AM: Kitten parses first sentence of daily newspaper that
is at bottom of chamber.
With the exception of the parsing, all behavior is typical of Earth kitten behavior. The parsing activity, which was done with a small ball-point pen, was an anomaly.
Modern kitten theory suggests several explanations for the kittens' existence on Mars. The first, put forward by Dr. Patricia Krieger of the Hey You Bub Institute, suggests that kittens occur both everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. In other words, we see evidence that kittens exist, but when you try to measure them, they are gone, usually at the top of drapes. Another theory, put forward by Dr. Charles Wesler and his Uncle Ted, suggests that any universe where round things exist, from theoretical spheres to Ping-Pong balls, necessarily implies the existence of a Mover/Kitten. The scientific world has responded by saying that the notion of this Mover/Kitten is not a concern of legitimate research and should be relegated to the pseudo-scientific world. The pseudo-scientific world has responded by saying that it needs at least three endorsements from independent crackpots before anything can truly be called "pseudo."
Some have suggested that the hostility of the Martian climate should be enough to seriously set back the long-term prospects of any species. However, the weakness of Martian gravity is a bonus for felines. They are able to leap almost three times as high as they can on Earth. They can climb twice as far up a carpet-covered post, and a ball with a bell in it will roll almost three times as far. This is at least equal to the distance that a mature poodle can roll a ball with its nose.
Even though there could be a big market on Earth for eternal kittens, most scientists agree that the human race should not pursue further involvement with the kittens. There are those, however, who believe that, having discovered these creatures, it is now our responsibility to "amuse" them.
Dr. Enos Mowbrey and his wife/cousin, Jane, both researchers at the Chicago Junebug Institute for Animal Studies, argue that the kittens could be properly amused by four miles of ball string cut into 14-inch segments. The cost of such venture would be:
Four miles of string: 135 dollars
Segments of string: 8 dollars
Manned Mars probe to deliver string and jingle it: 6 trillion dollars.
Currently, the only scheme for raising this money is a proposal to change Rhode Island into a casino.
Kitten theory, along with modern string theory, are embryonic notions at best. There is still much to be pursued, including exploration for similar life on other planets. When asked what other heavenly bodies might be conducive to kittens or, say farm life such as baby chicks, Dr. Joseph "Old" MacDonald enthused, "Io, Io, oh!""
Mr. Franklin was unable to keep from running over the cat as it bolted through a bush and darted in front of his car. Picking up the poor limp animal, he carried it to the house and rang the bell. A white- haired old woman answered the door.
"I'm sorry," said Mr. Franklin, "but I'm afraid I've run over your cat. I'd like to replace it."
"Certainly," the woman replied. "How are you at catching mice?"
Mrs. Pepperwinkle was devastated when her cat Mary expired. She wanted to give it a proper funeral, but both the Catholic and Protestant churches in her neighborhood refused to bury a cat.
In desperation, the woman turned to the synagogue and asked the rabbi if he would say a few words at the cat's funeral.
"Mrs. Pepperwinkle," the rabbi said, "for one thing, we do not believe in burying animals. For another, you're not even Jewish."
"I intend to donate a half million dollars in Mary's name to any house of worship which will accept her," the woman interrupted.
"..on the other hand, I do believe the cat is Jewish..."
The football stadium was infested with cats, but no one minded. They kept the mice away. One day, a cat chased a mouse up the scoreboard and over the side. The mouse was able to hold on, but the cat was not.
As it happened, Abramowicz was going out for a pass at just that moment. Noticing the cat plummeting toward the field, he poured on the speed, extended his arms, and caught it to his chest, the crowd, watching the incredible display, jumped to their feet and cheered.
And as he entered the end zone, the ecstatic if not too bright Abramowicz enthusiastically spiked the cat.
Before a cat will condescend
To treat you as a trusted friend,
Some little token of esteem
Is needed, like a dish of cream.
--T. S. Eliot
Rules of Play
One or more cats and/or kittens may compete.
Poopies used must be good and dry, and preferably rounded and small, in order to roll properly and fit into the various goals.
A non-carpeted floor should be used as the playing court.
Game is to be played at night, just as owners are about to fall asleep.
Object of the game:
250 points to be scored within an 8 hour period of time divided into four 1 hour periods of play interchanged with four 1 hour periods of rest.
Scoring
| A. Two-paw retrieval | 2 points |
| B. One-paw retrieval | 5 points |
| C. Retrieval of inadequate or mushy poopie | minus 5 points |
| A. Non-stop to within 4 feet of litter pan | 3 points |
| B. Non-stop across the kitchen floor | 5 points |
| C. Non-stop from pan, through kitchen and into living room | 7 points |
| D. Same as C, done in presence of the owner's dinner guests | 10 points |
| A. One kitty toss in air | 3 points |
| B. Completed forward pass | 5 points |
| C. If poopie shatters on impact | 10 points |
| A. Under stove or refrigerator | 5 points |
| B. Under furniture with 1" clearance | 10 points |
| C. Dead center of food plate | 15 points |
| D. Water dish | 25 points |
| A. Water dish goals | ||
| 1) For every hour before discovery | 5 points | |
| 2) If nearly dissolved upon discovery | 10 points | |
| 3) If owner gags when dumping | 15 points | |
| B. For placing in 3:00 A.M. path to bathroom | ||
| so owner steps on it with bare feet | 10 points | |
| If stepped on with fleshy part of arch | 15 points | |
| C. Movement of poopies up the stairs | ||
| 1) With mouth (never observed) | 5 points | |
| 2) Using paws, 1 step at a time | 10 points | |
| 3) On wooden steps between 12:00-6:00 A.M | 20 points | |
| D. Night-time bonus | ||
| 1) After lights out | 5 points | |
| 2) After 2:00 A.M. | 10 points | |
| 3) If owner confiscates it, having another one in play within 10 minutes | 15 points | |
A cat dies and goes to heaven. God meets him at the gate and says, "You have been a good cat all these years. Anything you desire, all you have to do is ask. "Well", the cat says, "I lived all my life on a farm and had to sleep on hardwood floors." "Say no more", says God, and instantly a fluffy pillow appears.
A few days later, six mice are killed in a tragic accident and they go to heaven. God meets them at the gate with the same offer he made the cat.
"All our life", the mice say, "we've had to run. We've been chased by cats, dogs, and women with brooms. If we had roller skates, we wouldn't have to run any more." God says he can take care of it, and instantly, each mouse is fitted with a beautiful pair of tiny roller skates.
A week later, God checks in on the cat, who is asleep on his pillow. God gently nudges him awake and asks, " How are you doing? Are you happy here?" "Never been happier", says the cat, stretching and yawning.
"And those meals on wheels you've been sending over are great!"