Category: Critters

News from the Animal Kingdom

Ye cats!

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Hy-larious kitty-cat article, from Quora.

Why do cats knock things off tables while making direct, unbroken eye contact with you?

Obvious answer: because, that’s why. Better answer:

TabbyNote
6 Hrs

If a cat shoving a glass off a table only cared about gravity, they would watch it fall. When they lock eyes with you instead, it isn’t malice—they’re running an experiment on you.

A cat’s paw pads are packed with highly sensitive nerve endings that act as their primary tool for investigating the world. In the wild, when a feline encounters an unfamiliar object—such as a motionless bug or a dead mouse—they bat it to test if it is alive, how fast it moves, or if it is safe to engage. A pen, a remote, or a glass sitting idle on a coffee table triggers that exact same investigative instinct. Pushing it is their way of gathering data.

Indoor cats also use this behavior to manufacture their own entertainment. A feline environment lacking in mental stimulation creates a bored predator, and for a bored predator, gravity is highly entertaining. Watching an object fall, hearing it hit the floor, and observing how it bounces provides an immediate rush of sensory feedback, temporarily turning a static room into a dynamic playground.

The unbroken eye contact reveals the ultimate motivation: the real toy is the human.

Cats learn cause and effect with remarkable efficiency. They quickly realize that knocking an object off a table is a guaranteed way to make a human stand up, speak loudly, and provide immediate attention. To a bored cat, even negative attention—like yelling or rushing over to shoo them away—is a victory. The unblinking stare is the cat waiting for their custom-built, highly predictable human toy to perform its usual routine. When humans stop reacting, the game loses its appeal, and the cat will usually move on to find a more rewarding source of stimulation.

Heh. Little turds.

“Reparations”

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Or, as it is more commonly known in law-enforcement circles, extortion.

Dem lawmaker bizarrely claims black Americans will stop voting if they don’t get reparations

Oh no. No, not that. Please, I’m begging here.

Rep. Summer Lee, D-Pa., said during an interview on Sunday that Black Americans would stop voting if they aren’t given reparations.

Lee slammed President Donald Trump’s “anti-weaponization fund,” and argued, “They are playing psychological warfare with us.”

“And that’s what they do,” she continued. “Because, again, they’re trying to disenfranchise you. Because if you believe that you’re never going to get reparations from this system, then you tap out, and you don’t just tap out of the conversation, you tap out of the system. You don’t want to vote anymore. You don’t participate anymore.”

Hey, wait a minnit here. Didn’t you just say that nigger sooperdoopergenii would be disenfranchising themselves? Or is it dat ol’ Debbil Wyte Maing who’s gonna do it? I’m all confused now. Maybe THAT’S the point…?

A cpl-three more threats/promises.


Uh huh. Pal, if the trillions upon trillions you already extorted from us Blue-eyed Debbils didn’t do it, what makes you think throwing MORE trillions down a Coontown toilet magically will? And then there’s this 50-IQ Einstein:


Gee whiz, a “mass exodus of black Americans to Africa”? Please, NO, anything but that! We’ll quadruple your monthly welfare bribe-out; give all of you a brand-new Cad-O-Lack to put up on cinderblocks out front of your tarpaper shack; free jumbo-size bags of BBQ pork rinds for all Cullud Peepuhs, etc. Just pleasepleasepleasePLEEAAASSSSE don’t go back to De Muthalan’ on us, Br’er Fox!

No “Show more…” workaround, because who gives a fuck what that yammerhead says. Ace spells it out:

Well, as they say, good. There is a certain sector of the black population, the Afro-Marxist BlacKKK, that is filled with violent racism and antisocial pathology and nigh-constant racial incitement and hoaxes and implacable hatred and seething resentment that can never be appeased, and I will gladly support them making their way to the Utopia (that is totally real) where they’ll all be successful now that they’re free of the White Oppression which seriously you guys is the only thing holding them back.

I look forward to future news of the technologically-advanced Super-Nation of Wakanda being finally made a reality.

So do I, buddy. So do I.

Update! A timely reminder, from Monday’s Eyrie meme post.

‘Nuff said.

Animals

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Beginning to figure it out yet? Because it ain’t like we have forever, y’know.


Plus.


When someone explicitly, directly, in-so-many-words tells you they want to kill you—again and again and again, going back literally fifteen hundred years—you should probably believe them, seems to me. And yes, if your response to this is to blame ***(((DemPeskyJoojoojooJOOOOOOOZ!!!)))***, then you are DEFINITELY part of the problem.

Paleosimian update! PREACH it, mofo.


To the point update! Copped from the Monday Eyrie post, mo’ betta:

Who indeed.

Meow mix

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This Rock & Roar dude is a bona fide all-caps GENIUS.

That one’s gotta be my fave, but R&R has a crapton of these, including Judas Purrst, Slipkcat, Catallica, and this next one.

At last, something AI can do really, really well.

Update! ZOMG, just found this one. My new favorite.

Heh. Go, Angus!

STILL firmly with Randy Fine over here

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You remember, this guy:

Well, Katya Sedgwick posted an excellent follow-up.

Democrats immediately threatened to censure the lawmaker citing Islamophobia. The combative MAGA Zionist might have been serious, but he did a variation on the old “the more I learn about people, the more I love my dog” joke—or was it a joke? Kiswani, on the other hand, claimed that she was joking in her original post about the canines, but was she?

Islamic cultures view dogs as unclean, and bar them from entering homes. Stray dogs are treated terribly. For instance, in 2022, the majority Arab city of Hebron in Judea offered 20 Israeli shekels for every slaughtered stray dog. Moreover, ahead of the 2030 World Cup, it was recently announced that the host nation of Morocco is planning on culling three million unsheltered pooches. An ordinary American naturally shudders just thinking about such a travesty.

There is something about this trusty animal that fills our hearts with emotion. It’s like a child, but even more so—a child who is simultaneously very useful and utterly dependent. But it will never grow up to fulfill the natural lifecycle by taking care of aging parents. In any event, a failure to defend such a vulnerable soul is felt deeply and personally.

To an American, the choice between dogs and Muslims—or Jews for that matter—is an easy one. We lived without Islam within our borders for nearly a quarter millennium. To live without dogs, on the other hand, would require a major adjustment for many American households—and an utter nightmare for the lonely and the widowed. It would require a massive rethinking of the family formation and our current standard living arrangements.

Socialist politicians argue that Americans should care for their neighbors regardless of their ethnicity, religion, immigration status, or criminal history. There is an argument to be made about that, yet the most intimate bonds are not between neighbors, but between members of a household, and those include the very first specie to be domesticated—dogs.

PREACH it, sister. Me, I’ll just content myself with a quick recap of what I already said on the topic: jihadi goat-humpers contribute nothing whatsoever of value to our country. We dont NEED them here, we don’t WANT them here, there is no place for them here, let alone in the kind of insane numbers baglapping D卐M☭CRAT scum have been forcing on us the last cpl-three decades.

Their irrational hatred for Man’s Best Friend aside, revanchist Moslems do not ennoble us, enlighten us, elevate us, or even so much as amuse us. What they DO do is curse our names for being hellbound infidels; gang rape our wives, sisters, and daughters to death; skin our beloved cats, dogs, ferrets, guinea pigs, et al, slap ‘em on the backyard Weber, and plate em up and eat em when they’re cooked through.

At some point, you can be sure that these cretinous yayhoos will visit your church, slash the pastor’s throat, bugger every male member of the Youth Choir under the age of 13 right there on the altar, make a bonfire with all the Bibles, copies of the church’s Weekly Bulletin, and hymnals, closing out the festivities by torching the building after the congregation has been securely locked inside. Once our Moslem Partners In Peace are done with the work of Allah and are starting to get restless and/or out of sorts again, they’ll blow us up, shoot our schoolkids, and drive Ryder trucks up onto crowded sidewalks and crush Grampa under its oversize wheels.

These yodelling, dress-wearing savages simply do not fit in here—never have done, never will do. They’ll patiently explain, to anyone with ears to hear, that they have no interest whatever in assimilating, in making adjustments to their own attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors so they might become better citizens in our country. Quite the contrary, actually: the plan is to convert us to the Religion Of Pieces—or failing that, subjugate and oppress us heathen dogs till we understand our proper place/. And if THAT doesn’t persuade us, maybe they’ll just say to heck with the whole hassle and put us all to the sword. Their primitive, tribal culture is not merely different from our own, it’s antithetical to it—actively, unalterably hostile to it.

Cliff’s Notes version: they hate us, our country, our way of life, and absolutely everything we stand for with a passion that burns with the heat of a thousand suns. This, they consider to be our fault and our problem, not theirs. You could try to work out this fundamental disagreement by “dialoguing” if you like, assuming you don’t mind wasting your time, breath, and energy. See, trouble with that approach is, they aren’t listening, having no interest whatsoever in any ideas they didn’t come up with.

Fine, can’t honestly say I really give a fiddler’s fuck anyhow. For all me, you Muzzie asswarts can go huddle together in some nightmarish Middle Eastern or sub-Saharan hellscape, sweltering in the stupefying desert heat, where you rightfully belong. Pick yourselves a good spot to pitch the tent, stake the family camel beside it, build a nice fire to sear the rancid meat of whatever pestiferous rodent you and your seventeen cousins captured yesterday, and y’all smelly sand niggers go have yourselves a real nice life, aiight? Just leave us dog-loving Unbelievers the fucking fuck alone. Next time you fleabitten somewhat-sentients get to thinking it might be a swell idea to start messing with us again, I strongly suggest that y’all inquire of the Iranian Mad Mullahs as to how well that worked out for them.

If you can find one who hasn’t as yet had a Tomahawk or Blue Sparrow slammed so far up his ass he can taste metal, trinitrotoluene, and solid-fuel rocket propellant on his tonsils, that is.

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Firehouse friendship

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If you aren’t damp-eyed by the time you get to the picture at the end of this touching story, you ain’t anything I’ll ever recognize as human. Period fucking DOT.

CAPTSmoke 1.

CAPTSmoke 2.

Fare thee well, CAPT Smoke. May you rest forever in the embrace of God’s strong, comforting arms, and may the bereaved, grieving souls of Station 51 also find comfort for the pain of their loss. 

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Teh doggehs, or teh Mooselimbs?

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A real no-brainer if ever there was one.

Dogs are better than we deserve as people
Some people are shit-head assholes and do not deserve the love and devotion that dogs give.

Officers were called to the airport just before 11:40 p.m. after receiving reports of a dog that had been left behind at the ticket counter, police said in a Facebook statement.

The video shows the woman walking up to the counter with the dog running around behind her. That section of the video clip does not include audio. The woman eventually walks away, leaving the dog’s leash tied to a ticket counter.

She was arrested on the charges of animal abandonment as well as resisting arrest. The two year old doodle was taken in by a rescue organization. She didn’t bother to show up to claim him (definitely for the best). Imagine if she got him as a puppy and then just walked away after two years because it was inconvenient and because she couldn’t even be bothered to get a friend to come pick him up and keep him safe.

Never trust anyone who doesn’t like dogs and anyone who would treat a dog like that should be avoided completely.

Yes indeedy. Seconded, with all my heart and soul.

This one dovetails nicely with Friday’s Eyrie outing, from which I will now quote.

Democrats Call to Censure Rep. Randy Fine for Saying America Will Choose Pet Dogs over Muslim Supremacy
Democratic politicians have found themselves indirectly defending Islam’s 7th-century hatred of man’s best friend, dogs.

Several Democrats have instinctively accused Rep. Randy Fine (R-FL) of racism after he reacted to a New York-based Muslim advocate, Nerdeen Kiswani — who said house pet dogs will not be welcome in a non-secular, Islamic New York.

“NYC is coming to Islam,” said a February 12 tweet from Kiswani, referring to the November electoral victory of Zohran Mamdani, the Ugandan-born, Indian-origin, immigrant, populist, and Muslim Mayor of New York. She added:

Dogs definitely have a place in society, just not as indoor pets. Like we [Muslims have] said all along, they are unclean [“najis”].

Kiswani responded to many critics: “Lmao at the Zionists frothing at the mouth at this, thinking they’re doing something. It’s obviously a joke I don’t care if you have a dog, I do care if your dog is shitting everywhere and you’re not cleaning it.”

Fine responded three days later, on February 15: “If they force us to choose, the choice between dogs and Muslims is not a difficult one.”

No, it most certainly is not. As one would expect, this is the point where shitlibs started flipping out and flopping around on the floor like landed carp en masse, hurling all the standard-issue Mark 1-Mod 0 shitlib epithets at Fine: racist, bigot, homophobobe, fascist, Hitler, Islamophobe, et al ad nauseum. Also as one would expect, I seriously doubt you could lay hands on any more than two or three mainstream American types who would’ve taken any kind of issue at all with what Rep Fine said.

I was, and am, not in any way joking about that last bit (I dropped the italics to kinda-sorta highlight my own remarks), nor exaggerating for effect neither. The simple, inescapable fact is that Americans do love their doggeh friends, as well they might, and right straight to H-E-double-toothpicks with those yodeling 9th Century camel humpers and their irrational hatred, fear, and contempt for the canine cohort.

“Dirty”? “Unclean”? Yeah, whatevs. I gar-on-gott-dam-TEE you you don’t want to hear how huge numbers of us describe YOU troglodytic turd-burglars. STRONG HINT: The hoary old jibe “smells like an Ay-rab with a goat under each arm” is NOT intended as a compliment, nor does it flatter y’all flamboyantly pungent motherfuckers’ standards for bodily hygiene in any way, shape, or form. Sad, sorry truth of the matter is, I’ve owned dogs who STILL smelled better than you malodorous sunsabitches after they’d enjoyed themselves a good, long roll in/on/over the putrescent carcass of some long-dead critter or other.

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In praise of…pit bulls?

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These excellent but overly-maligned doggehs are due some, that’s for sure. But, as those of us who have had pitties before already know, almost all of what the congenitally dishonest, pig ignorant “they” say about the breed isn’t remotely true.

The Jews of the Canine World
Pit bulls have been unfairly stereotyped as genetically dangerous monsters. Sound familiar?

I’ve always loved dogs that look like pit bulls: wide and smiling faces, goofy expressions, broad chests, sturdy bodies, short coats, enthusiastic tails. I grew up not knowing about dog fighting, or about this breed’s vicious reputation. My terror was reserved for German shepherds (my equally frightened little brother tremulously called them “sheffers”), with their pointy, mean faces and loud barks. There were some territorial ones in the yards in my Providence, Rhode Island, neighborhood.

But after moving to New York, I came to understand that pit bulls are hated. My little East Village copy shop, where we got Josie’s bat mitzvah invitations, has a big, short-coated, wide-chested, flat-faced dog behind the counter. His name is Curtis. He comes when you call and accepts head-pats with dignity. But when I asked the owner, Santo, what kind of dog Curtis was, he hesitated. “He’s a mix,” Santo said. “Terrier, other things … pit bull.” He clearly was reluctant to say those two words. He thought I’d recoil.

You know what people say about pit bulls: Violence is in their genes. They have double rows of teeth. Their jaws can unhinge like a snake’s. Their jaws lock after they bite. They don’t feel pain the way other dogs do. In 1987, U.S. News and World Report called them “the most dangerous dog in America,” able to “chomp through chain-link fences.” The Guardian called pit bulls “dogs of war who can bite through concrete.” Time called them “time bombs on legs” and started a story on them with a quote from The Hound of the Baskervilles:

Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish, be conceived than that dark form and savage face.

A friend had her family dog genetically tested, and when she discovered it had some pit bull lineage, she gave it away. Her kids sobbed. But what if the dog just lost it one day? That’s what pit bulls do, right?

None of this, of course, is true. Bronwen Dickey’s fascinating new book Pit Bull: The Battle Over an American Icon charts the evolution of pit bull stereotyping. (It begins with a quote from André Gide: “There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.”) In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, pit bulls were considered the family-friendliest dogs. Dogs that looked like them served in the Battle of Gettysburg and in Normandy. One accompanied Laura Ingalls Wilder’s family in their covered-wagon journey across the prairie. Helen Keller owned and adored one. Another (named Votes!) accompanied suffragist Virginia Watrous on the campaign trail in 1915. Still another starred in the “His Master’s Voice” campaign for RCA and another in the “Our Gang” kiddie comedies. Dickey observes that pit bulls were then seen as “quintessentially American: good-natured, brave, resilient, and dependable.” But within a few decades, they’d become DNA-driven vicious beasts, “biologically hardwired to kill.”

My first dog was a pittie, as was my last, along with a few others in between—the last one being just the sweetest ol’ girl ever to walk on four legs and shit in the backyard and tremble like a leaf in a gale during thunderstorms: the late, great Cookie (Monster). A photo of my dear, departed friend: Pretty girl, no? When I took her to the Gastonia, NC animal shelter to be put down at not quite 16 years of age, after the attendants had put her in the little cart and wheeled her off and inside to do the dirty deed I sat out in the parking lot and cried like a disgruntled infant for well over two hours. I still can hardly believe my darling pupster is gone, and I miss her still.

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Your feel-good story of the week

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The reunion vids, of which there many on the Innarnuts (here’s one), are real choke-you-uppers as well as awesome in their own right. But I wanted to post the story in print. So to speak, I mean. Pixels, ones and zeros, whatevs.

After year and a half in Gaza captivity, Billie the dog returns to her Israeli family
Billie is finally home after a year and a half. The dog was kidnapped from Kibbutz Nir Oz on Oct. 7, 2023. Since then, her owners have been searching for her, posting flyers, with no idea what happened to her.

Yesterday, it was reported that a surprising phone call finally came with information about the lost dog.

A Golani military reservist who had been serving in Rafah recently discovered the dog there. He wanted to adopt her and brought her to Israel for vaccinations at a veterinarian in the center of Israel.

There, the vet scanned her microchip and discovered that Billie the dog belongs to Rachel Dancyg from Nir Oz. Rachel’s former husband, Alex Dancyg, and her brother, Itzik Elgart, were both kidnapped and murdered.

This morning, Dancyg said in an interview with Kan Reshet Bet, “I hoped, but I didn’t believe she was alive. She survived because she’s my dog. She ran to the soldier, didn’t let go, didn’t leave him. It’s a huge joy. We haven’t reunited yet – I’m shaking.” She added, “If only Itzik and Alex were coming back too.”

If you watch the above-linked vidya, you’ll already know that the pain has already been reunited, and Billie is back home again with his loving owner. Kinda odd that the murdering Hamas savages didn’t just shoot the critter right offhand, crazy-ass Muzzrats considering dogs to be unclean, or haram. and all that twipe. Maybe Ms Dancyg should change the cute little booger’s name from Billie to Lucky. One thing we know sure about the li’l pupster: he’s smarter’n all Hell, running right up to that IDF soldier and sticking to him like glue the way she did. Good show, cheers, brilliant, and a hearty well done for all involved.

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Brine shrimp

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Anybody out there old enough to remember Sea Monkeys?

Sea-Monkeys is a marketing term for brine shrimp (Artemia) sold as novelty aquarium pets. Developed in the United States in 1957 by Harold von Braunhut, they are sold as eggs intended to be added to water, and most often come bundled in a kit of three pouches and instructions. Sometimes a small tank and additional pouches are included. The product was marketed in the 1960s and 70s, especially in comic books, and remains a presence in popular culture.

Ant farms had been popularized in 1956 by Milton Levine. Harold von Braunhut invented a brine-shrimp-based product the next year, 1957. Von Braunhut collaborated with a marine biologist, Anthony D’Agostino, to develop the proper mix of nutrients and chemicals in dry form that could be added to plain tap water to create a suitable habitat for the shrimp to thrive. Von Braunhut was granted a patent for this process on July 4, 1972.

They were initially called “Instant Life” and sold for $0.49, but von Braunhut changed the name to “Sea-Monkeys” in 1962. The new name was based on their salt-water habitat, together with the supposed resemblance of the animals’ tails to those of monkeys.

Sea-Monkeys were intensely marketed in comic books throughout the 1960s and early 1970s using illustrations by the comic-book illustrator Joe Orlando. These showed humanoid animals that bore no resemblance to the crustaceans. Many purchasers were disappointed by the dissimilarity and by the short lifespan of the animals. Von Braunhut is quoted as stating: “I think I bought something like 3.2 million pages of comic book advertising a year. It worked beautifully.”

Good old American marketing genius and ingenuity, that’s what, enhanced by a heaping helping of old school medicine-show hucksterism. What reminded me of it all was this post over at BRM. I tried leaving a comment over at Peter’s joint, but I don’t think it took.

There are several iterations of the Sea Monkeys ad findable via Luxxle search, but the one I remember best is this one:

Please note the disclaimer at bottom left—truth in advertising if ever I saw it, although as a kid I of course would pay it no heed. After refusing for a few years, my Dad finally consented to order some for me back then, and I must say the main result of the whole project was profound disappointment. Be all that as it may, one has to ask: was the world really a more fun place then, or were we all just more gullible? All things considered, this might be the perfect time to embrace the healing power of “and.”

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Best juvenile tantrums EVAR!!

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Why yes, as a matter of fact I AM laughing at you childish brats losing your shit publicly for the simple, pathetic reason that you didn’t get your way. Why do you ask?

This next one might be even better yet: dumpy, unattractive cunt decides to cut off her hair so as to deny us the opportunity to desire her sexually, which none (0) of us actually do anyway.

Problem being, of course, that she’s too fucking stupid to figure out how to work the electric clippers, and finally has to resort to ordinary scissors to get the job done. Idiot.

All this sniveling psychopathy, mind, because their preferred candidate lost. You dames better find a way to toughen up, and fast. Lots more mental breakdowns both here and here, if you can stomach ’em. Personally, I find them uproariously funny, but mebbe that’s just me. I’m heartless like that sometimes, don’tchaknow.

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Peanut’s revenge

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Speaking to us from beyond the grave.


Can there be any serious doubt about what’s going on here? I THINK NOT. Thank you, Peanut!

(Via Ace)

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And now for something completely different…

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It begins this way:

On a day when everybody’s going to be blathering on about elections and voting and partisanship, I figured we could all do with something completely different.

Said a mouthful there, Peter. The video he embeds, a NatGeo doc called Billy & Molly: An Otter Love Story, is also available on YewToob here, and is simply beyond heartwarming—just a wonderful story. Such a welcome relief from the tedious bullshit that is “American” “elections” nowadays, providing a lively contrast with last week’s P’nut the Squirrel abomination. Narrated by Billy’s bemused wife, Billy & Molly… is slam-full of lushly beautiful Shetland Islands scenery, and tells a story that’s bound to touch anyone with a properly-functioning soul deeply. Not to be missed. As one of Peter’s commenters snarks, thank God Billy and Molly aren’t in New York.

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Smash the State

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Oh noes, looks like Trump has murdered poor Peanut the Squirrel! You may laugh, but t’ain’t funny, McGee: you know as well as I do that it will be tomorrow morning’s NYT headline, and the subject of the next Kumhaula for ***”pResident”*** ad.


Operative words in this next one: “We complied.” That was your mistake, bud. NEVER comply with the whims of dictators and tyrants.


Happily, the squirrels know the appropriate response to murderous oppression. If only we humans were as intelligent as our furry four-legged friends.

You go, gi…uhhh, squirrels! Via Ed, an explainer for why this seemingly insignificant story really does matter.

In the midst of the decisive election campaign of our lifetimes, why talk about Peanut the Squirrel? Aren’t there more important issues like the polls, turnout, shenanigans, and all the day’s news?

Actually, the Peanut saga is the WHOLE story, in a nutshell.

Yeah, yeah, sorry. Onwards.

Yes, all those things matter. But the story of Peanut matters because it is a microcosm of what we are facing. A nameless, faceless, and merciless bureaucracy with no sense of proportion or empathy can, at a whim, upend people’s lives over what amounts to nothing. It can seize a beloved family pet, the mascot of an organization that does enormous good, just because some nanny-stater decides they don’t approve.

The streets of New York City are filled with criminals and migrants, billions are spent on hotel rooms for illegals, drugs are ravaging our communities, and lawlessness is spreading in ways that degrade our civilization. Those are big problems that are difficult to deal with, so the government turns its Sauron eye to Peanut because it can overwhelm the little guy with no problem.

Improving people’s lives is hard. Killing a squirrel is easy.

And far more satisfying to the kind of miserable parasite you find burrowed deeply into all goobermint bureaucracies, too.

We all get overwhelmed by the enormous challenges we face, but we can all understand the story of a squirrel. In our guts, we know what happened is wrong–what we need to understand is that this is how government works as often as not. The ostensible reason behind the raid and 5-hour squirrel (and raccoon) hunt in a man’s home is that Peanut could have rabies, and rabies control is a government function.

Oh, absolutely! Says so right there in the, um, Constitution. Not that anybody cares about that old thing anymore. Bottom line? Just this.

Fighting rabies in the wild is hard, and it is MUCH easier to euthanize a squirrel that lives indoors and could not possibly have rabies. Eight government employees can waste a day ransacking a man’s house, kill a squirrel, and call it a day without having to do anything that actually makes the public safer. Win!

PREACH it, bruh!


The last word is DOA’s.

“Whatcha gonna do with your head in a noose,” indeed. Although Joey Shithead’s response is “I DON’T KNOOOOW,” I most certainly do: nothing, that’s what.

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Rock on, Party Cat!

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I loved the Pat and Party Cat saga so much I simply HAD to do a follow-up post, after digging a little further into the story.

Rescue Cat Sees the Country From the Back of a Bike
Just because you ride a bike and you look like a tough guy, that doesn’t mean you can’t have a soft side too. Just look at New Jersey biker, Pat Doody, and his rescue kitty, Party Cat.

Doody was on his way back to New Jersey, after a cross-country trek to Born Free in California. At a truck stop in Nevada, Doody found this poor little guy abandoned, with burns all over his fuzzy little body. But instead of saying, “oh, that’s so sad,” and moving on, Doody picked up the cat, put him in his vest, and brought Party Cat along for the ride.

Apparently, Party Cat took to the road instantly.

Doody did a pretty excellent job of documenting the duo’s adventure back home, too.

“Found this little orange nugget in wells nv. He’s done a few hundred miles in vest so far. Looks like he burnt his lip some how. But he’s a cool dude,” Doody posted on his Tumblr, along with the picture above from Pinebrook Trails.

Apparently the road was good to Party Cat, as Doody says the cat is doing much better, and that his burns have almost healed entirely. So not only has the cat found himself a home, he’s also found himself a hobby. Ride on, Party Cat, ride on.

Yes indeed, little guy. Another:

Biker Rescues Tiny Injured Kitten and Goes on Cross-Country Road Trip Together
It’s certainly an unusual sight to see a heavily-bearded biker carrying around a tiny kitten, but Pat Doody and his furry friend Party Cat are a match made in heaven. They came together serendipitously, as Doody was headed towards his home in New Jersey all the way from California. He was at a truck stop in Nevada filling his tank with gas and noticed that the little guy needed help–he was badly burned. Doody rescued Party Cat by tucking him into his vest and taking him on the road.

The rest of their relationship is history. Although Doody was still thousands of miles away from his destination, the calm, well-mannered Party Cat was okay with the trek. He nibbled on dry tuna during the ride, and his new-found human applied ointment to his injuries along the way. “His burns are pretty much all healed up except for the little spot on his lip…It looks a lot better and doesn’t seem to be bothering him,” Doody explained to Revzilla.

Now that they’re home, Party Cat is eating proper cat food and has seen a veterinarian, and Doody has gained an adorable, permanently-loyal pal.

More great photos of the dynamic duo appended to the above short article, including this one:

A damned good-looking pair, wouldn’t you say? I sure would.

This Biker Does Not Look Like A Cat Lover, But After A Motorcycle Show He Had No Choice
When biker and sheetmetal worker Pat Doody left the Born-Free motorcycle show in Silverado, California, he expected to make the trek back home with friends, but he didn’t think he’d be sharing his bike with a new one.

He was noticeably injured and obviously a stray, so naturally the biker felt like he needed to take him in.

After getting some consistent food and rest, the little cat quickly began to regain his health.

Eventually, he was healthy enough to join Doody on his day-to-day adventures…

Wherever they are, whatever they’re doing, Party Cat just goes with the flow.

But finally, after a long and eventful journey, the pair arrived safely at home, where they both continue to enjoy their new friendship.

Lots, lots more heartwarming photos at that one, including a candid photo of PC enjoying his new Jersey digs:

Heh. Looks like Party Cat fell into a pretty schweet set-up all around, I am happy to report. One more:

Biker saves badly burned kitten and takes him on a cross-country adventure
Party Cat is living a great life on the open road.

He’s known as Party Cat.

Rescued by New Jersey biker Pat Doody at truck stop, Party Cat was found with burns all over his body. Instead of leaving him behind, Doody tucked him in his vest and continued on a cross-country adventure.

Despite his name, Doody describes Party Cat as “so chill.” Doody has a YouTube channel, but he has yet to make a video featuring Party Cat, and his Instagram is currently locked. Thankfully, Doody’s Tumblr is full of adorable cat pics, and we’re waiting patiently for Party Cat’s eventual social media stardom.

There’s another brief article w/pics here, among plenty of others. I say again: Good on ya, Pat Doody, and God bless you and Party Cat both. Best wishes for many more happy two-wheelin’ years together.

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