I had a dream where I lost Cap’n among the hundreds of black and white cats and they all looked nearly identical to him. It was such a sad dream that it made me drool out of my eyes.
A great band name would be Tickling Whiskers. Especially if the lead singer is a cat. I’d love to audition for backup dancer.
I feel self-conscious calling my cat fat in front of a fat person, considering I’m skinny and inconsiderate.
Maybe I could hear better if my ears weren’t flipped inside out. Unlike a cat’s ears, you can’t tell mine are flipped over. But they must be, because I only seem to listen to myself.
I wanted to make her a greeting card, but as far as I got was folding the paper in half. I left it blank inside, so she’d know how much I love her. I never mailed it, because my tongue was too dry to lick the envelope closed, and my cat was too bus...
Your dead cat would look great on my t-shirt—along with tire tracks on my chest. What better time is there to love than now?
On his deathbed, my grandpa told me three things to remember for after he died. First he said, "You can't own a cat. Ever." Second he told me, "Friendly boys make friendly friends." Finally he said, "You were adopted, just like your father before you...
The way my vacuum cleaner sucks up cat hair, I shouldn’t have been surprised when it huffed up my mustache. But I was surprised it sucked out all the love and romance in our relationship.
My cat’s favorite chew toy is a pen. I’d wager that he is a better writer than me.
Sometimes I wish I had been born with cat fur, whiskers, and a tail, though I guess I am grateful that at least I was born with my very own litter box.
If my chest grew cat hair, I wouldn’t know whether to pluck it or pet it.
I'm sort of a girly guy in that I love cats, rainbows, sunsets, flowers, trees, and sex. But not sex with trees.
Dinner is served. It’s chicken lo mein. Oh and by the way, your cat is missing.
I yelled at my cat to knock it off, and sure enough, he did. And it broke.
Love is like a blanket: it will keep you warm, but it might also suffocate you. Also, it's probably covered with cat hair—love, I mean.
A meow’s a sound I want to look at. And after I see it, I want to pet it.
I’ve gone astray. It’s better to cook with a stray than eat your own cat.
When I describe love to an emotional Helen Keller, I usually say it has four legs, fur, and possesses the ability to either purr or meow.
Love reminds me of when I was six and had a pet goldfish named “Silverbird” that I carried around the house, petting it like a cat. Needless to say it died. So I ate it.
When he misbehaves, I’ll clap and then point at my cat, as if transmitting the sting of the slap towards him in punishment.
I wear my love like a sweater made out of kitten licks. Weezer wrote about my love with their song, “The Sweater Song.” Cats find that song very cleansing.
