So Much For Tardo

I’ve been monitoring the presence of a lonely (hungry?) stray cat bumbling about the periphery of my homestead. We’ve named it Tardo based on the fact that it’s dumb. It’s not just dumb but immensely so. Suppose you took two opposing party politicians and chained them to each other. Then suppose you provided your politician sandwich with an expense account, cocaine, and an Uzi. The cat has less common sense than that!

While the family has declared that its official name is Tardo, I sorta’ call critters whatever they ought to be called at the moment. It’s a cat, it’s too dumb to know it’s own name anyway. As it tries (ineptly!) to integrate into our homestead’s social scene (which requires making peace with our pre-existing outdoor cat “Evil” and trying not to die due to nature) I’ve been rooting for it. If it shows enough sense to settle in, it’ll have a good life.

It’s a toss up if it’ll work out. Some things are so stupid you wonder how they ever came into being. (See: Congress, AMC Gremlin, and Racewalking.) For the last several days, I’ve been calling the cat whatever name seems to best represent it’s current level of dumbass.

“C’mere Tardo, I’ve got food.”

“Yo! Null Set, get the hell off my truck!”

“Hey, Dialtone, quit trying to nap where I’m stacking the wood. You’re gonna get crushed!”

“Listen up Common Core, you have to eat the food, not stand in the bowl meowing.”

“Hey, Fart Blossom, have you been rolling in the mud? You look like a pig’s doormat.”

“Fer crissakes, Paul Krugman, you can’t lounge on the anvil of a 27 ton hydraulic ram while I’m splitting wood!”

That last one might have been too mean. I wouldn’t expect a cat to know the name of an economist so wrong that he’s practically a reverse compass, but maybe the critter could just tell. I’d gone a bridge too far and he gave me a foul look. It was as if was saying “How dare you compare me to that imbecile. I may be a cat so dumb I fell in a mud puddle but at least I don’t wave around a bullshit Nobel prize while being fantastically wrong. I’m outta’ here.” Then he stalked off into the woods.

I haven’t seen the cat for a few days. I fear it’s toast. Perhaps I should’ve stuck with his earlier nickname “Owlbait“?