When I was a child, my favorite shows were Looney Tunes cartoons. I had no idea I was learning to tolerate gratuitous violence, sexually predatory behavior, and adult nudity in front of young impressionable ducks – until my extremely woke adult daughter set me straight. Sigh…
The living room was quiet, except for the heavy, disappointed sigh vibrating from my thirty-year-old daughter, Naomi. I had foolishly suggested she spend an hour with me, watching classic Looney Tunes on YouTube, fondly remembering the Saturday mornings of my youth wrapped in a blanket, eating sugary cereal, and laughing until my ribs ached. I genuinely thought we’d bond over it.
I was wrong. After what could only be described as “enduring” a dozen Looney Tunes cartoons, Naomi glared at me as if her father should be brought up before a Senate sub-committee to interrogate people charged with deep moral failings and profound insensitivity to woke culture.
“Dad,” Naomi began, her voice dripping with the solemnity of a UN human rights investigator. “We need to talk about your childhood. I am literally shaking right now. How did you survive growing up bombarded by such deeply problematic, toxic, and violent media?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, adjusting my reading glasses. “It’s just Bugs Bunny. It’s funny.”
“Funny?” Naomi gasped, clutching her ethically sourced oat-milk latte to her chest. “Dad, let’s start with the most glaringly obvious offender, Pepe Le Pew. He is a textbook serial predator. He completely disregards boundaries, corners a clearly non-consenting feline who has accidentally been painted with a white stripe, and uses psychological warfare to pressure her into physical intimacy. He is a French caricature of rape culture, Dad!”
“He’s a skunk, Naomi,” I offered weakly. “The joke is that he smells horrible, but he thinks he’s the sexiest man alive.”
“No, Dad, he’s a womanizer who perpetuates a dangerous culture of harassment,” she corrected, waving her finger. “But honestly, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I noticed a systemic, disturbing trend of public indecency. Look at Donald Duck.”
“Donald Duck is Disney, sweetie, not Warner Brothers, but go on…”
“It doesn’t matter! The societally ignored trauma is the same!” she cried. “Donald Duck walks around all day with absolutely nothing on from the waist down! He is literally exposing himself to his three young, impressionable nephews! Huey, Dewey, and Louie are being subjected to a toxic environment of familial exhibitionism. Where is Child Protective Services in Duckburg, Dad? Where?!”
This is a scene from the 1957 Looney Tunes feature film What’s Opera, Doc? In this scene, Elmer Fudd is digging a hole, attempting to find the “wabbit” as Bugs stands watching him toil in vain. As usual, Elmer is trying to kill Bugs. But he’ll fail miserably, like always. I find this hilarious. My adult daughter thinks I need serious therapy.
I stared at her, trying to recall if I had ever looked at Donald Duck and thought about his missing trousers before. “He wears a sailor shirt,” I muttered. “I always figured his feathers covered the rest.”
“That is a privilege-blind justification,” Naomi snapped, pacing the rug. “And don’t get me started on the insidious ableism and body-shaming. Porky Pig? They took a character with a severe speech impediment and a clear genetic disposition to weight retention, and they made him the butt of the joke! Instead of providing him with speech therapy and an inclusive, body-positive space, they forced him to stutter out the end of every episode for the amusement of the neurotypical masses. It’s disgusting.”
“I always thought Porky was a lovely fellow,” I said, feeling defensive. “He was very polite.”
“He was oppressed, Dad!” Naomi’s voice went up an octave. “But the absolute worst part of these Looney Tunes cartoons is the normalization of psychopathic, homicidal behavior. The sheer level of unmitigated violence is triggering. Sylvester the Cat is locked in a perpetual, toxic cycle of trying to murder and literally eat an innocent, marginalized yellow bird! Tweety is just trying to exist in his cage, and Sylvester is practicing predatory gentrification!”
“Well, cats do eat birds, Naomi. It’s kind of what nature calls them to do.”
“Not on my TikTok feed, they don’t,” she said flatly. “And what about Wile E. Coyote? His vengeful obsession with the Road Runner is terrifying. The Road Runner has done absolutely nothing to deserve this targeted harassment. Wile E. is clearly financing a domestic terrorist cell through the ACME corporation – giant magnets, massive falling boulders, rocket skates! The supply chain accountability alone is a nightmare. He needs a mental health intervention, not a rocket strapped to his back.”
“But the bird never gets hurt,” I pleaded. “The coyote just gets flattened by an anvil. The bird always outsmarts him!”
“It teaches a culture of vengeance!” Naomi yelled, her eyes wide with moral superiority. “And don’t even get me started on the hunter-prey dynamic with Elmer Fudd. He is a cis-gendered white male with toxic masculinity issues, constantly attempting to murder a bunny rabbit with an unregulated firearm. But do you know what the most disturbing part is?”
“When the gun hilariously explodes in his face?” I guessed.
Okay, I will belatedly admit, in the light of today’s social standards that Pepe Le Pew crossed the line egregiously. But surely Yosemite Sam is okay? No? Oh, massive anger management issues. Then how about Foghorn Leghorn? He’s a racist? Hmmm. I missed that part. Thanks for enlightening me, dear daughter.
“No! It’s the blatant predatory gender fluid exploitation!”
“You lost me, dear.”
Naomi let out a scream as she threw her hands in the air. “The moment Bugs Bunny puts on a blonde wig and a dress to outsmart him, Elmer Fudd’s entire demeanor changes. He doesn’t see a rabbit anymore; he sees an object. He immediately shifts from attempted murder to attempted sexual assault! He starts swooning over a cross-dressing rabbit! It completely trivializes the entire trans experience while simultaneously promoting predatory behavior toward anyone wearing a dress!”
I blinked. I had watched that cartoon fifteen times in my youth. My only takeaway as a seven-year-old was that Bugs was so clever and Elmer Fudd was an idiot. I never realized I was unconsciously internalizing a masterclass in patriarchal subjugation.
“Naomi,” I said gently, “it’s just slapstick. The anvil falls, they get flat like a pancake, and then they pop back up. Nobody actually dies. Nobody gets hurt. It’s just… cartoons.”
“That is exactly the kind of passive acceptance that has allowed your Boomer generation to ruin the housing market,” Naomi sighed, looking at me with deep, patronizing pity.
“Come again?”
“You’ve been conditioned to accept violence, public nudity, and predatory skunks as ‘entertainment.’ I think I need to go meditate and decompress. My cortisol levels are spiking through the roof.”
She grabbed her recyclable tote bag, adjusted her blue-light glasses, and marched out of the house to go save the world, one TikTok influencer post at a time.
I sat alone in the quiet living room for a long minute. Then, I picked up the remote, opened YouTube, and pulled up the 1957 Warner Brothers classic What’s Opera, Doc?. As Elmer Fudd began singing “Kill the wabbit,” I took a sip of my distinctly non-organic can of Mountain Dew and laughed until my sides hurt.
The moral of the story? Never let your highly sensitive, impressionable adult children watch Looney Tunes. The trauma is just too great for them. These subversive videos are strictly for us Baby Boomers, who survived the dark ages of comedy, pantsless ducks, cross-dressing rabbits, and anvil-dropping coyotes, and somehow lived to tell the tale. Th-th-that’s all, folks!
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Henry and Marge have been married for 27 years. Unfortunately, for 9 years, Henry’s been a birder. He’s spotted a jay. But he’s not sure if it’s a California Scrub Jay or a White-tailed Jay. She’s thinking, “Who the f*** gives a crap what type of jay it is!”
As a nationally recognized unlicensed behavioral psychologist who has spent nearly three decades studying unusual human habits, I have witnessed countless troubling obsessions. I’ve seen adults spend $14,000 on virtual farm equipment in online games. I’ve counseled men who believed professional wrestling was real. I’ve even met individuals who voluntarily joined local pickleball association boards. (What were they thinking!)
Yet none of these compare to the rapidly growing epidemic currently sweeping suburban America. I’m speaking, of course, about birding.
For those unfamiliar with the term, a “birder” is not someone who enjoys an occasional glance at a Robin while mowing the lawn. No, birders are individuals who become fascinated – some experts would say chronically obsessed – with obscure birds with multi-syllabic names like the Northern Black-Hooded, Double-Tufted, Wing-Crested, Hooked-Tail Sparrow. The problem is worse than you think.
According to recent studies, married men who think Birkenstocks with knee-high black socks is a good look and who have limited social lives appear particularly vulnerable. The warning signs often begin subtly. Perhaps your husband points out a bald eagle circling overhead (unless you’re in New York City, in which case it’s more likely just another pigeon). Then he purchases a bird feeder. Before you know it, your husband is waking up at 4:15 AM on a Saturday, covered in camo netting, to sit in a swamp, hoping to catch a glimpse of a breeding pair of North American White-Crested Sapsuckers.
How do you know if your husband has crossed the line from a casual nature-lover into a full-blown avian psychotic? Look for these critical warning signs:
First, listen to his vocabulary. If your spouse goes on at length describing the minor, indistinguishable plumage differences between the Kentish Plover and the White-Faced Plover, seek psychiatric help immediately. There is no rational reason a grown man should care about a plover’s feathers.
Second, monitor his accessories. If he has a pair of high-powered, military-grade binoculars strapped around his neck at all times – including while watching TV, driving the minivan, or taking a shower – this is not a fashion statement. It is a cry for help. If your spouse has obvious binocular tan lines around his neck, it’s time to panic. He may be beyond saving at this point.
Ordinary men discuss sports scores, riding mowers, or why their team’s prospects to “go all the way” look much better next year. Birders suddenly begin saying things like, “I heard a Black-Throated Gray Warbler this morning.” Or, “The snow geese migration patterns have been spectacular this year.” Or, “Quick! Get in the car! Someone spotted a rare Yellow-Bellied Something-Or-Other near the sewage treatment plant!” No rational person has ever uttered such phrases – or had any interest in being caught anywhere in the vicinity of a sewage treatment plant.
One of the most troubling signs occurs when family vacations become suspiciously bird-centered. Your spouse may believe you when you tell her you’re taking her for a quiet romantic weekend getaway. Then you arrive at a mosquito-infested marshland in the middle of nowhere because “a very unusual shorebird called the Lesser Bar-Tailed Godwit was reported there on Tuesday.” Some marriages never recover.
So, what should you do if you suspect your spouse has become deeply involved in birding? First, remain calm. Avoid direct confrontation (or direct eye contact). Do not ridicule his collection of birding field guides or expensive birder apps. You may be tempted to ask why he owns seven books that all appear to contain identical pictures of sparrows. Resist this urge.
He will have explanations. Lengthy explanations. Annoyingly boring, excruciatingly detailed explanations. Instead, gently encourage alternative activities. Suggest hobbies generally considered more normal among middle-aged men, like high-stakes sports gambling, fantasy football, arguing with Trump supporters on Facebook, day trading, or going to strip clubs with male friends in search of hookers.
This is a chart listing some of the more popular North American Sparrows. Did you know that there are 60 different species of sparrows in North America alone? How many species of sparrow can you name? If you can only name one – SPARROW – congratulations, you’re not a birder. You are a normal, sane person, with your priorities in order.
Granted, finding male friends willing to accompany a committed birder can be challenging. Many friendships end abruptly after the third consecutive conversation about the migratory patterns of the Black-Capped Chickadee.
Try inviting other couples over at your peril. Birders tend to struggle in social settings because they frequently interrupt conversations to identify birds outside the window. “Honey, pay attention. Karen was telling us about her hip replacement.”
“I understand, but that’s definitely a Red-breasted Nuthatch.” Turns out he was right, but that’s beside the point.
You can also attempt gradual rehabilitation. If he spends four hours watching birds every Saturday, reduce it to three and a half. Replace the remaining thirty minutes with sports highlights or yelling at professional golfers on television. Recovery can be a slow, arduous journey back to sanity.
In severe cases, professional intervention may be necessary. The National Association for Concerned Spouses operates a confidential bird-wife support hotline at 1-800-NO-MO-OWLS. Trained volunteers stand by 24 hours a day to listen compassionately while you explain why your husband drove 200 miles to observe a bird that looks nearly identical to twelve other birds he’s already photographed over 200 times.
Remember, you are not alone. Thousands of families are affected each year. But let me help you put this crisis into perspective. Birding, while irritatingly nerdy and mind-numbingly boring, is generally harmless – unless your spouse attempts to pet a raptor. In fact, it could be much worse. Your husband could have become obsessed with model trains.
See? It could be a lot worse than having a birder for a spouse. Your husband could have taken up trains as a hobby and taken over the garage… then the basement… then the living room…
With train enthusiasts, sooner or later, the entire garage gets covered wall to wall with train paraphernalia. Then the basement. Before long your home starts looking less like a mid-century two-story colonial and more like an 1850s pioneer village complete with tiny blacksmith shops, miniature livestock, and a thematically era-inconsistent model drive-in burger shop circa 1962, which he got on sale for only $450.
Before you know it your husband is walking around all day sporting an 1870’s era train conductor’s outfit complete with a genuine conductor’s whistle – which he blows at full volume every time the train comes into the station. If you notice your husband has run a stretch of model train tracks across the bed headboard in your bedroom, that’s a good indicator it’s time to contact a divorce attorney.
Compared to that, a few binoculars and an unhealthy interest in woodpecker mating habits doesn’t really sound so bad now, does it? So don’t freak out. And if your spouse suddenly shouts, “Quick! Grab the camera! A rare tufted thingamajig just landed in the maple tree!” Well… At least he’s outside getting some fresh air, in his favorite pair of Birkenstocks.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Game Show Host: Welcome everybody to another episode of the wildly popular trivia game Who Said What? Tonight’s contestant is Wilbur Deffinear, an 84-year-old retired construction worker from Chugwater, Wyoming. Welcome to the show, Wilbur! Are you excited?
Wilbur: I’m sorry, what did you just say? My hearing isn’t so good these days. I worked a jackhammer for 50 years. Turns out if you hold a tiny earthquake next to your head for half a century, there are consequences.
Host: (Smiling broadly) No worries, Wilbur. The game is simple. I’ll ask you a series of questions. If you answer correctly, you move on and the prize money keeps climbing. Ready to begin?
Wilbur: Begin what?
Host: The game, Wilbur. The game! Here we go. For $125: After what person is the standard unit of electrical power named?
Wilbur: (Leaning in) What?
Host: Correct! A watt — named after Scottish engineer James Watt. Good start!
Host: For $250: When you’re engaged in conversation and the other person appears not to be paying attention, what might the other person say in response to your question?
Wilbur: Huh?
Host: Yes! “Huh?” is absolutely correct! For $500, what rock group composed and performed the famous rock opera Tommy in 1969?
Wilbur: Who said what? Could you repeat the question?
Host: I’m afraid we don’t have time. For $1,000: A man is released from prison because the president has granted him a what?
Wilbur: Pardon me? What did you—
Host:Pardon is correct! Ladies and gentlemen, this guy’s unstoppable!
Wilbur: Not sure I’m at the right place. I was trying to get to my doctor’s office for my proctology exam. I got kind of lost…
Host: For $2,500: What famous, but enigmatic Beatles song from 1969 included the cryptic lyrics, “He got ju-ju eyeball, he one holy roller?”
Wilbur: Come again?
Host: Well, technically, it was Come Together. But the judges say, “Close enough.” Well done. Now, for $5,000, what were Ludwig van Beethoven’s last words?
Wilbur: I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.
Host: EXACTLY. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.” Because he was deaf. Well done again, Wilbur.
Wilbur: What did you just say? My hearing aid fell off. I can’t find it.
Host: For $10,000: Do you know the name of the first James Bond film villain?
Wilbur: No. Can’t say that I – …
Host:Dr. No! Correct again! This man is a cinema scholar!
Wilbur: I haven’t been to a movie since Reagan was shot.
Host: For $15,000: Can you tell me the first two words of the Four Tops’ smash hit song whose title ends with “Help Myself”?
Wilbur: I can’t… uh… sorry.
Host: “I Can’t!” Correct! The full title is “I Can’t Help Myself.” It topped the Billboard 100 charts for two weeks in 1965. How did you know that, Wilbur?
Wilbur: I have no idea what is happening…
Host: For $25,000: What famous Shakespeare line begins with the words “To be or not to be? That is the – blank?
Wilbur: Um, Question. What did you just – ?
Host: QUESTION. That is correct! From Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1. This is getting really exciting. Now, Wilber, for $50,000: What is the English translation of the French phrase “Je ne sais pas”?
Wilbur: Well, I don’t know. I’ve never been to Fran-…
Host: Wilbur, is there anything you’d like to say at this moment?
Wilbur: Yes. My hearing aid fell out when I first sat down. I haven’t understood a single word you’ve said the entire time. For all I know, I just agreed to join the Navy.
Host: Wilbur, no, much better. You just won $100,000!
Wilbur: I owe a thousand dollars? I don’t have that kind of money on me.
Host: (Handing him a massive, oversized cardboard check) No, you WON $100,000! Here’s your prize!
Wilbur: (Staring at the giant board) What is this?
Host: It’s a check!
Wilbur: A what?
Host: A CHECK!
Wilbur: (Nervously) Czech? No, no… I’m Polish on my mother’s side. I think there’s been a mistake.
Host: That’s all the time we have tonight! Join us next week on Who Said What? where we’ll be introducing a brand-new contestant who is technically legally blind and forgot his glasses.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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While 95% of the country enjoys summer in a tropical paradise (during a heat dome), Seattleites are bracing for a long stretch of brisk, bone chilling weather with highs barely reaching the low-to-mid sixties. It’s not easy having to put on a sweater and long pants every day while the rest of the country lounges around in their underwear like they’re in a sauna.
We interrupt your regular TV programming for the following special emergency weather alert.
ANCHOR ANITA SCOOP: Good evening. We interrupt your regularly scheduled rerun of Seattle’s Rainiest Moments for continuing coverage of what meteorologists are calling an unnervingly cool, mild stretch of July weather.
The National Weather Service has issued an Extreme Summer Cool Advisory for the entire Puget Sound region after computer models confirmed what experts feared most: Daily highs in the mid-sixties for nearly the entire month of July.
Let’s go live now to KIRO Weather Team 7’s Chief Meteorologist, Brad Breezilton, standing outside in downtown Seattle.
BRAD BREEZILTON: Thanks, Anita. As you can see behind me… (camera pans dramatically to people casually walking dogs in light jackets) …conditions have already begun to deteriorate as yesterday’s high temperature of 74 has in only 24 hours already plummeted to barely 61 degrees today.
The breeze has picked up to nearly nine miles per hour, enough to cause several residents to zip their fleece jackets all the way to the top.
Visibility remains excellent, humidity is hovering near zero, and sunlight has broken through the clouds for nearly two uninterrupted hours – hardly the weather we’ve come to expect here in the Pacific Northwest. Officials are urging residents to remain indoors unless absolutely necessary. If you must venture outside, dress responsibly. And remember to politely wave to fellow pedestrians and don’t litter.
Experts recommend beginning with a long-sleeve shirt, then a sweatshirt, an REI fleece vest (preferably one that cost more than your first car), and for safe measure, a waterproof shell. If you plan to visit the community swimming pool, please remember to pack your parka. Hypothermia has not been reported. But goosebumps and extreme shivering are possible.
Meanwhile, across much of the rest of the United States – and most of Europe for that matter – millions of people continue enjoying summerlike “real feel” temperatures between 105 and 115 degrees. It sure must be nice to live in a place where they won’t see anything remotely approaching 650 weather any time for the next four months. Envious Seattle residents can only imagine how wonderful it must feel to be a New Yorker or Atlantan basking in triple-digit tropical rain forest conditions.
Washington’s governor has released the following emergency preparedness checklist:
LEVEL ONE PRECAUTIONS
Bring a hoodie to your barbecue.
Keep one emergency fleece blanket in every vehicle.
Drink hot coffee every two hours.
Replace popsicles with clam chowder.
LEVEL TWO PRECAUTIONS
If paddleboarding on one of our cool, pristine lakes, wear thermal underwear.
Campfires are encouraged for toasting marshmallows and warming your hands.
If attending an outdoor concert, locate the nearest propane patio heater before the opening act.
Children should limit cannonballs into swimming pools to no more than three before returning indoors for hot chocolate.
We now go live to our field reporter, Sonny Daye, outside Green Lake.
REPORTER SONNY DAYE: Thank you, Brad. Conditions here continue to worsen. Behind me you’ll notice joggers, many of them wearing long sleeves. Several cyclists have actually put on gloves. Earlier today I witnessed something truly heartbreaking. A man ordered an ice cream cone. Five minutes later… he admitted he wished he’d gotten a mochaccino instead. Back to you, Anita.
ANCHOR ANITA SCOOP: Local retailers report panic buying throughout western Washington. Stores have nearly sold out of fleece pullovers, knitted beanies, artisan soup mixes, cinnamon tea, and decorative throw blankets featuring silhouettes of evergreen trees.
In light of the COOL WEATHER ALERT for Seattle and Western Washington, area residents are reminded to stay indoors to keep warm. But if you have to venture out, you’re advised to make sure your kids are dressed for the elements and hydrate them often with hot cocoa – preferably with whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles.
Ice cream sales have dropped precipitously in the past 24 hours, with one customer complaining, “It just doesn’t feel like ice cream weather.” Doctors are urging calm. Meanwhile, Expedia and Orbitz travel sites report a surge in airline searches to Seattle from people living in Phoenix, Dallas, Boston, Washington D.C., and Houston. Interestingly, the number one Google search this past week from regions currently experiencing a heat wave emergency has been “How can I move to Seattle.”
Meteorologists continue studying this unusual marine layer weather pattern that seems stalled over the Pacific Northwest. As a result, Seattle remains under a Level Three “Consider Wearing Another Layer” advisory.
Long-range computer models are showing a weak disturbance in the upper atmosphere that could bring a dramatic shift to our region by the middle of August, when temperatures could briefly soar into the mid-to-upper 70’s. Meteorologists caution Puget Sound residents not to get their hopes up, as forecasts call for the high temps to dip back down into the mid-sixties by early September.
Until then, local residents are urged not to risk the elements, but if you do have to venture outdoors, stay covered, stay warm, and don’t forget your sunscreen.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
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.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
