Why Most Cats Suck at Pickleball

Over the past two years, I’ve become mildly obsessed with the sport of pickleball, often beginning conversations with total strangers by asking, “So, what’s your DUPR rating?” And that’s in the checkout aisle at the IGA. Wanting to share this passion, I naturally turned to the only consistent companions I have who don’t complain about my backhand: my cats, Zippy, Buddy, and Monster.

For the better part of three months, I tried to teach them the fundamentals: Dinks, volleys, poaching, serving – none of it seemed to stick. But the hardest concept by far was getting them to stay out of the kitchen. Not the actual kitchen (they’re very good at staying in there, especially during tuna time), but the pickleball kitchen – you know, the area near the net where you’re not supposed to volley. I explained the rule over and over, but they just stared at me, knocked over my water bottle, and went to sleep next to the ball machine.

And don’t get me started about scorekeeping. I discovered that cats are terrible at math. I’d say, “The score is 4-2-1,” and Zippy would stare blankly at me, flick his tail, and start chomping on the ball. Buddy once attempted to keep track by scratching tallies into the court, which I appreciated until I realized it was actually my leg.

Then there’s the issue of team dynamics. Pickleball is a social sport, requiring cooperation and communication. Cats, on the other hand, are more of the “I’ll sit on your paddle while you cry” kind of teammate. During doubles matches, they frequently refused to cover their side of the court, preferring instead to lie motionless in a sunbeam and lick their toes during key rallies.

Their agility, while impressive in leaping onto kitchen counters or knocking over my coffee so it spills on my laptop keyboard, doesn’t translate effectively to pickleball footwork. You’d think reflexes honed by generations of predatory instinct would come in handy – but no. When a ball comes their way, they either swat it lazily into the neighbor’s yard or stare at it like it’s beneath them. Which, to be fair, it probably is.

I even tried incentivizing them. Treats, laser pointers, catnip-infused wristbands – nothing worked. They showed brief enthusiasm for the ball itself, but mostly to chase it under the couch and then refuse to retrieve it, resulting in me spending 40% of my training sessions with a broom handle and a strained lower back.

Let’s not even get into their attitude during line calls. Every disputed point resulted in Monster walking off the court in protest, usually straight to the litter box, where he would make his opinion very clear.

In conclusion, while my initial goal was to train a competitive feline pickleball doubles team, I have been forced to reconsider. It’s not that they can’t play – technically – but they lack focus, sportsmanship, and any concept of teamwork. Not to mention opposable thumbs.

I have to say, with great disappointment, that you should probably not waste any significant amount of time trying to teach your cat the finer points of pickleball. You’ll have a much higher likelihood of success with a Labradoodle.

That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.

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