CATS: the comedy

I don’t tell people I have three cats right away. I ease them into it.

I’ll say, “Yeah, I’ve got a cat.” Pause. Just testing the waters.

“Actually I also have another one…” Longer Pause.

“…and a third.”

That’s when their eyes change. Not judgment — concern. Like they’re quietly checking to see if I’m okay.

Because three cats isn’t an accident.

Three cats is a decision. Or a series of small decisions you never fully took responsibility for.

I don’t own three cats. I coexist with three cats. Ownership implies authority. I have none.

Each cat has a role.

The first cat is the CEO. Runs the house. If dinner is late, I don’t get yelled at — I get stared at. The kind of stare that says, We’re gonna circle back to this.

The second cat is an emotional manipulator. Loves me deeply, passionately… as long as I’m sitting perfectly still. If I shift even an inch, they leave like I’ve betrayed them personally. Avoidant attachment. Probably journals.

The third cat is a cryptid. Appears without warning. Disappears without explanation. Sometimes I’ll be alone in my apartment and suddenly there’s a cat behind me like a horror movie reveal.

No footsteps. No warning. Just presence.

People ask, “How do you tell them apart?” Buddy, I don’t.

Feeding time is a daily experiment in chaos.

I put out three bowls. Equal portions. Fair system.

They all abandon their bowls and crowd around the same one. The worst one. The one in the middle. Like it tastes better because it’s contested.

Now — here’s where comedy comes in.

People are afraid of bombing at open mics.

I get it. Bombing is uncomfortable.

But no open mic bomb has ever been as bad as me trying out a new joke in my living room… and my cat immediately throwing up a hairball right on the punchline.

Not before. Not after.

On.

That’s timing.

I’ve learned a lot from performing for my cats. Mostly humility.

If a joke lands, one cat will blink slowly at me. That’s huge. That’s like a standing ovation in their culture.

If a joke doesn’t land, they don’t boo. They just start doing something deeply violent.

I’ll be working on a bit, worried about keeping the attention of a college bar during a showcase, and meanwhile my cats are brutally decapitating a toy mouse like they’re sending me a message.

This is what real commitment looks like.

You want to talk about holding a room?

Try finishing a story while maintaining eye contact as your cat drags the headless body of a stuffed animal across the floor.

If my cats walk away mid-bit, I know it needs work.

If they stay? If they sit? If one of them lays down?

That joke’s got legs.

I’ve been ignored by drunk crowds. I’ve been talked over. I’ve been heckled.

But none of it prepares you for delivering what you think is your best tag ever… only to hear a loud hork hork hork from behind the couch.

So yes — I am a cat guy.

Three cats. Three critics. Zero mercy.

And honestly, if I can hold their attention? A bar full of college kids doesn’t scare me at all.