Animal Radio® Show #421 December 22, 2007



Shorty by Larry Monk
from Chicken Soup for the Cat & Dog Lover's Soul
It doesn't seem like that long ago, but it has been nineteen years since a little ball of joy (and fluff) came into my life and changed it forever. I was working for a property management firm in San Francisco and was asked to relocate to Texas to oversee an apartment complex there.

Soon after my wife Linda and I arrived, the building maintenance man discovered a little mutt in a recently vacated apartment. The dog was in a closed closet with no food or water. The maintenance man and his wife were unable to keep her, so Linda asked me if we could do so, "Just for a little while." I reluctantly agreed, but added, "Just for a few days."

I nicknamed the dog Shorty. And Shorty took to me like you wouldn't believe. She followed me everywhere. She was closer than a shadow and when she lay beside me on the couch or in bed you couldn't get a dime between us. Both Linda and I quickly knew that a "little while" was going to become a lifetime.

When our time in Texas came to an end, we returned to San Francisco where Shorty adjusted to being a city dog. We'd take her to the park and for walks around town, but it wasn't the same as when she and I went running out in the fields together just enjoying the day and one another. That was truly our favorite time.

In San Francisco, Shorty learned how to play baseball. She absolutely loved it. Linda pitched, I hit and Shorty fielded the ball. She would catch it in the air or at the most on one hop, trot up to Linda, give her the ball and then run back to the outfield and bark as if to let us know she was ready for more.

As time went on, Linda wished she had a dog that was as devoted to her as Shorty was to me. So one day we went to the SPCA. Sitting in the back of a cage was a terrier-mix a little bigger than Shorty but with the same coloring. He had the biggest brown eyes and was just begging to be taken home. And he was.

Shorty and Buddy took to each other from the beginning and people used to think they were brother and sister.

Some years later, we rented a little house with a fence and room for Shorty and Buddy to play in. By then in her old age, Shorty started losing her teeth, and her tongue used to hang out of the side of her mouth. She also lost her sight and her hearing.

But Buddy became her eyes and ears. He knew that when Shorty went to the front door and barked once, the way she had always done, she wanted to go outside. But now she needed assistance, and Buddy knew exactly what to do. He would take her ear in his mouth and gently guide her down the steps to the lawn where he would lie down and watch her roaming around smelling everything she could. When she was ready to come into the house, Shorty would stand motionless, bark once and again Buddy would go to her, take her ear and guide her up the stairs to her bed.

One evening the door was open, and Shorty somehow made it down the stairs unattended but she collapsed at the bottom. I carried her to her bed and she lay there for a day whimpering, just as she had seventeen years earlier in that dark closet. I told Linda that it looked like it was about time.

Linda knew what I meant and nodded. We took Shorty to the vet that night and as expected there wasn't anything that she could do. She helped us feel better by asking us to think of all the positive things that Shorty had brought into our lives. I will always feel grateful for that.

I decided to remain with Shorty. The vet left us alone in a room, and I stood just stroking her. I think we both gathered some comfort in being with each other. When it was over I cradled her, not ever wanting to let her go.

Linda and I had Shorty cremated and today her ashes and her picture sit atop our dresser.

When the time comes, I've requested that I too be cremated. And Linda has promised me that she will scatter my ashes, together with those of Shorty, in the biggest field she can find.

Then Shorty and I will go running together once again.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Larry Monk passed away suddenly just three weeks after writing this story. In accordance with his wish, Linda Monk scattered Shorty's ashes, along with her husband's, in one of their favorite fields.)

Peter Gethers
Peter Gethers was a confirmed cat hater until the day he received a six-week-old kitten as a gift. Walking the streets of New York with Norton tucked into his pocket, Gethers began forming an intense attachment to his new pet. Before long, Norton was flying with his owner on the Concorde to Europe, sipping milk in Parisian cafes, and eating custom-made pounce pizzas at Spago. Soon Gethers began to detail Norton's adventures in print, and with The Cat Who Went to Paris and A Cat Abroad the duo made history as well as many, many friends around the world.


Laurel Canyon Animal Company
Skip Haynes
Squeaky Christmas
Jingle Fish
Bring An Animal Home for the Holidays


I Yell Because I Care
As I sat enjoying a cup of tea one morning before work, my children brought a catalog to show me what they had found. They pointed at a picture of a T-shirt. They said it reminded them of me.

Flattered that they were thinking of me, I looked at the picture. Then I frowned. On the front of the shirt, in large bold print, were the words, "I Yell Because I Care."

"But I don't yell at you," I said softly. This brought laughter and rolling eyes from my precious offspring.

"Oh yeah, Mom, you sure do!" said my oldest daughter. The second child chimed in with, "All the time!" The youngest put his hands over his ears in mock fright and spun around in a circle until he collapsed on the floor, giggling and dizzy.

"No, no," I protested quietly. How could they possibly think I yelled at them? I was a good mother. I listened and helped when I could. I was always there for them, lending support and love. But a mom that yelled?

"We can prove it," said the oldest. "Every time you raise your voice, Bo Peep goes nuts."

I eyed my little blue and white parakeet with suspicion. Bo Peep sat calmly on her perch, watching us. She was waiting for someone to notice her and perhaps come over for a talk and a little playtime. She thrived on the attention that four children could give.

"Okay, I'll prove it," I challenged them. "Let me think of something to say loudly, and then we'll see."

I'd like to say that it took me some time to come up with an appropriate phrase to "yell," but in all honesty, one just popped into my mind. I cleared my throat daintily, and then sang out, "You kids, hurry up or you'll be late for school!"

Before I finished speaking, Bo Peep was flapping around inside her cage, hopping from perch to perch, screeching, "Tsk. . .tsk. . .tsk!" She certainly gave us her two cents' worth. We all received a thorough scolding from the tiniest member of our household.

It was a very humble mother who apologized then. The kids were right; I was wrong. I now realized the truth. I was a mom who yelled, after all.

A few minutes later, the children were still laughing as they made their way out the door and on to school. I took another sip of hot tea, then turned and shook a finger at my feathered friend.

"Miss Peep. . .," I began, only to be interrupted. Bo Peep puffed out her cheek feathers and said earnestly, "You are so-o-o-o-o pretty, pretty, pretty."

Well, I could hardly argue with such an honest friend, could I? It had to be true.

After all, a little bird told me so.

(Reprinted with permission from Angel Animals Story of the Week. Pamela Jenkins is a contributing author to Chicken Soup books and magazines. Her story, "Tough Guy " is in the new book, Angel Cats: Divine Messengers of Comfort by Allen and Linda Anderson.)

Happy 2B Music
I Love My Pets

The Origin of Cats and Dogs
Ed Sayres, ASPCA President
It is reported that the following edition of the Book of Genesis was discovered in the Dead Seal Scrolls. If authentic, it would shed light on the question, "Where do pets come from?"

And Adam said, "Lord, when I was in the garden, you walked with me everyday. Now I do not see you anymore. I am lonesome here and it is difficult for me to remember how much you love me." And God said, "No problem! I will create a companion for you that will be with you forever and who will be a reflection of my love for you, so that you will know I love you, even when you cannot see me. Regardless of how selfish and childish and unlovable you may be, this new companion will accept you as you are and will love you as I do, in spite of yourself."

And God created a new animal to be a companion for Adam. And it was a good animal. And God was pleased. And the new animal was pleased to be with Adam and he wagged his tail. And Adam said, "But Lord, I have already named all the animals in the Kingdom and all the good names are taken and I cannot think of a name for this new animal." And God said, "No problem! Because I have created this new animal to be a reflection of my love for you, his name will be a reflection of my own name, and you will call him DOG."

And Dog lived with Adam and was a companion to him and loved him. And Adam was comforted. And God was pleased. And Dog was content and wagged his tail.

After a while, it came to pass that Adam's guardian angel came to the Lord and said, "Lord, Adam has become filled with pride. He struts and preens like a peacock and he believes he is worthy of adoration. Dog has indeed taught him that he is loved, but no one has taught him humility." And the Lord said, "No problem! I will create for him a companion who will be with him forever and who will see him as he is." The companion will remind him of his limitations, so he will know that he is not worthy of adoration."

And God created CAT to be a companion to Adam. And Cat would not obey Adam. And when Adam gazed into Cat's eyes, he was reminded that he was not the supreme being. And Adam learned humility. And God was pleased. And Adam was greatly improved.

And Cat did not give a **** one way or the other.

10 Great New Pet Products
Geoff Mott,
Click on the link to view PetGadgets Top 10 Holiday Gift Ideas for 2007.

The Christmas Angel
Pamela S. Zurer
When my daughter Rachel was six years old, we went to the local shelter, looking for the perfect cat. We liked a lot of the cats we saw there, but we were especially taken with a mother and her kittens. All the kittens were entirely jet black, except for one. She had a small white tip to her tail, like one bright light in the night sky. We brought her home and called her Star.

Starry was a charmer. Rachel admired her proud manner and enjoyed even more the secret knowledge that it was all an act. Starry could only appear aloof for so long before leaping up into Rachel's arms to be cuddled and stroked.

As time went by, Rachel and Starry adopted certain routines. At night when we watched TV, Starry crawled into Rachel's lap, and stayed there, purring contentedly. Starry always rubbed her face along Rachel's chin, ending the love fest with a gentle nip on Rachel's nose.

Sometimes I couldn't help but feel the injustice of this. I was the one who took care of the cat, feeding, cleaning, grooming - yet, Starry was clearly Rachel's cat. Eventually, I came to love watching their cozy bond.

My little girl grew up, went to junior high and finally high school. Starry was ten and Rachel was sixteen. Starry and Rachel were still close, though Rachel spent less and less time at home. Starry spent most of her day sitting on the sideboard in the dining room, looking out of the window into the backyard. I loved seeing her as I'd pass, her glossy black coat almost sparkling in the sunlight she loved to seek out, the white tip of her tail brilliant against the shining black of her curled body.

One Sunday morning, early in November, Starry got out the door before we could stop her. When Rachel's friend came over to study that evening, she came in the door with a worried expression. "Where's Starry?" she asked. When we told her we didn't know, she had us come outside with her. There was a black cat lying in the street.

It was Star. The cat's body was warm and she didn't appear to be injured. There was no blood or wounds that we could see. It was after hours, but our vet agreed to meet us after our distraught phone call. Rachel was upset, but holding it together. My husband Burt and I told her to stay at home while we took Star to the vet.

Burt and I picked Starry up carefully and rushed her to the vet's office. The vet examined her briefly before looking up at us and saying, "I'm sorry, but she's gone." When we got home, Rachel could tell by our faces that Starry was dead. She turned without speaking and went to her room.

It had been a hard year for me. My father had died not long before, and I hadn't totally come to grips with the loss. Rachel and I were in the midst of the delicate dance mothers and teenaged daughters everywhere find themselves performing - circling, pulling away and coming together in odd fits and spurts. I took a chance and knocked at her door.

When she said come in, I sat with her on the bed and we cried together. It was a good cry, clearing out some more of the grief I couldn't face about my father and bringing Rachel and I closer as we shared our sadness about Starry.

Life went on. Thanksgiving came and went. Rachel and I both found ourselves mistaking black sweatshirts strewn on chairs or floors for our newly missing black cat. The sideboard looked desolate, empty of the warm presence glowing with life I'd come to expect there. Over and over, little pangs of loss stung our hearts as the weeks went by. I was out Christmas shopping, when I saw it. It was a Christmas tree ornament in the shape of a "cat angel."

A black cat with white wings and a red ball between her paws. I had to get it, but bought it wondering if it would be a happy remembrance of the cat we'd loved or a chilling reminder of our loss.

When I got home, I painted a white tip at the end of the angel cat's long black tail and hung the ornament on our tree.

That evening, when Rachel came in, she flopped on to the couch. She sat staring at the Christmas tree, "spacing out" after a long day at school and after-school sports. I was in the kitchen when suddenly I heard her gasp. "Mom," she called. "Mom, come here!"

I walked in and found her standing in front of the tree, looking at the cat angel with shining eyes. "Oh, Mom. It's Starry. Where did you find an ornament with a tail like hers?"

She looked about six again. I gathered her into my arms and wonderfully she didn't resist. We stood together, looking at the tree, feeling our love for Starry and for each other.

Our charming, nose-nipping cat was gone, but now Starry, the Christmas angel, would be a part of our family tradition for years to come. Sometimes you can make your own miracles.

The Twelve Neighs of Christmas
Britt Savage
Carol of the Barn




How Could You
Jim Willis
When I was a puppy I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" - but then you'd relent and roll me over for a bellyrub.

My housetraining took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed, listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch - because your touch was now so infrequent - and I would have defended them with my life if need be.

I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams. Together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.

Now you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog or cat, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.

After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.

I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table, rubbed my ears and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.

She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. With my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not meant for her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever.

May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.

The End

Copyright Jim Willis 2001, all rights reserved

2006 Moving Day
Rae Ann Kumelos, Voice of the Animal
A move means more than packing, changing my address and ordering new phone service. It also means saying good-bye to the wild animal friends who have shared my life for many years. Discover how a bobcat, bear, rose-breasted grosbeaks and an elderly turkey made it difficult to say good-bye.



Life is Good!
Trixie Koontz, Dog
Dad teaches me to type. Hold pencil in mouth and type. At first is fun. Then is not fun. He says to me, "Write, Trixie, write. Write essay for website." Being good dog, I write. Not fun, but I write. Expect treat for writing. Get no treat. Stop writing. Get treat. Carob biscuit. Good, good, good. Okay, so I write some more.

Dad promises website visitors my essay end of July. Must give up important ball chasing, important napping, important sniffing to write. Work hard. Writing hard. So many words. Stupid punctuation rules. Hate semicolons. Hate; hate; hate. Chew up many pencils in frustration.

Finish article. Give to Dad. Then I rip guts out of duck. Duck is not real, is Booda duck, stuffed toy. I am gentle dog. Cannot hurt real duck or even cat. But am hell on stuffed toys. Work off my tension. Rip, rip, rip. Feel pretty good. Cough up soggy wad of Booda-duck stuffing. Feel even better.

Dad gives editorial suggestions. Stupid suggestions. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He is not editor, is writer. Like me. I pretend to listen.

Am actually thinking about bacon. Bacon is good. Bacon is very good. I am good, too. People call me "good dog, good, very good." Bacon is very good. I am very good. But I am not bacon. Why not? Mysterious.

Then I think about cats. What is wrong with them? Who do they think they are? What do they want? Who invented them, anyway? Not God, for sure. Maybe Satan? So nervous writing about cats, I use too many italics. Then I hit hateful semicolon key; don't know why; but I do it again; and whimper.

Dogs are not born to write essays. Maybe fiction. Maybe poetry. Not essays. Maybe advertising copy.


Dad gives me editorial notes for study. Eight pages. I pee on them. He gets message.

Dad says he will give my essay to webmaster as is. Webmaster is nice person, nice. She will know good writing when she sees it.

Days pass. Weeks. Chase ball. Chase rabbits. Chase butterfly. Chase Frisbee. Begin to notice sameness in leisure-time activities. Pull tug-toy snake. Pull, pull, pull. Pull tug-toy bone. Pull tug-toy rope. Lick forepaw. Lick other forepaw. Lick a more private place. Still do not taste like bacon. Get belly rub from Mom. Get belly rub from Dad. Mom. Dad. Mom. Dad. Get belly rub from Linda, Dad and Mom's assistant. Get belly rub from Elaine, Dad and Mom's other assistant. Linda. Elaine. Linda. Elaine. Dad. Mom. Get belly rub from Elisa and Paula, housekeepers. Elisa. Paula. Elisa. Paula. Linda. Elaine. Mom. Dad. Belly rub, belly rub. Read Bleak House by Charles Dickens, study the brilliant characterizations, ponder the tragedy of the human condition. New tennis ball. Chase, chase, chase. Suddenly is September.

Webmaster asks where is Trixie essay. Where? Dad lost. Dad got busy working on new book, got busy and forgot Trixie essay, and lost it. My human ate my homework. Sort of.

All my hard work, my struggle, all those hateful semicolons-for what? All for nothing. Essay lost. All for nothing. Feel like character in Bleak House. Worse. Like character in Joseph Conrad book.

Think about getting attorney. Get agent instead. Writing fiction. Novel. Maybe knock Dad off best-seller list. Teach him lesson. Writing novel called My Bacon by Trixie Koontz, Dog. Already have invitation from Larry King, David Letterman, be on shows, do publicity, sell book, get belly rub from Dave. Maybe get limo for media tour. Ride around in limo, chasing cats. Life is good when you're a dog.

What Do I Get That Puddy Tat for Christmas?



NEWS UPDATE: ASPCA Makes Historic Announcement
Ed Sayres, President ASPCA
ASPCA unveiled a "forensics first"-the nation's first-ever "Mobile Animal Crime Scene Investigation (CSI) Unit."

This is a specially-designed vehicle outfitted with state-of-the-art forensics tools as well as medical equipment tailored to animal patients and the victims of crimes. The vehicle will help the ASPCA to significantly advance the prosecution of animal cruelty in this country, by incorporating the emerging field of veterinary forensics in crime scene investigations-truly bringing the fight against animal cruelty into the 21st century.

The mobile forensic vehicle will operate under the leadership of the nation's premier forensic veterinarian, the ASPCA's Dr. Melinda Merck, who, as you may know, is the nation's only "animal CSI," and who most recently assisted Federal authorities in the Michael Vick investigation. The mobile unit, which will be available to assist at crime scenes nationally, will allow Dr. Merck to examine and care for animals found at suspected crime scenes, and includes a surgical suite for animals in need of urgent care.

The ASPCA will also break ground on the nation's first Anti-Cruelty Institute in New York in 2008. This institute will be dedicated to educating veterinarians and law enforcement officials with specialized training necessary to recognize and respond to animal cruelty. The facility, scheduled to open in 2010, will include a forensic laboratory and veterinary hospital, a treatment center for animals who are victims of cruelty, as well as educational training and other programs.

NEWS UPDATE Brought To You By Simple Solution Natural Line Of Products


I first met prince on a dark Thanksgiving Eve eight years ago when I returned from the city for the long weekend, to feed my daughter's mare. Following a few steps being the mare, came a giant face out of the darkness. A head, hanging like a broken branch from a crane-like neck, a concave back and a pace so slow that each step seemed painful. I had no idea how he got there, this caricature of a horse, nor where he should have been. "It must be Prince" my daughter said...

Cigarette Companies Find New, Untapped Market - Your Pets!
Click to see article


Mike Arms
Helen Woodward Animal Center
Michael Arms was an enthusiastic young man who set out to change the world, one puppy at a time. After completing his education and serving a tour of duty as a United States Marine in Vietnam, Mike returned to his home in New York and accepted a position with the Humane Society.

While he took great pride in saving the lives of orphaned pets by finding loving, permanent homes for them, the stress of all the pets he could not save was beginning to take its toll. He was losing weight. He tossed and turned through one sleepless night after another. Convinced that there was nothing he could do, he tendered his resignation and accepted a position outside of the animal welfare industry.

During his final week, just as he was ready to leave the office one evening, a call came in informing the Humane Society about a dog that had been struck by a car in the Bronx. When Mike's secretary asked what she should do, he told her to send a truck out to pick up the dog. "There's nobody available. They've all gone home for the day." So Mike removed his suit jacket, put on a technician's coat, and drove to the site to pick up the dying puppy.

When he arrived, it was immediately obvious that the pup's back was broken. Bending over to pick it up, he was interrupted by two men standing in a doorway. "What do you think you're doing?" they asked. Mike explained that the puppy was hurt and that he was going to take it to the Humane Society.

"No you're not."

"Why, is it your dog?" asked Arms.

"No, but we have a bet on how long it's going to take before it dies."

"You guys are really sick," he said, stooping once again to pick up the little body.

"That was when these two heroes attacked me from behind. They stabbed me; they beat me, and left me there in the street to die with the puppy."

Just as Mike Arms was slipping into unconsciousness, the pup crawled over to him and began licking his face. "There was no way that the little guy should have been able to reach me with his broken back. But somehow he pulled himself over to me with his front paws and brought me back to life."

"There in the gutter I prayed and promised God that if he would allow me to live, I would never turn my back on an orphaned pet."

The puppy didn't survive, but Mike Arms did. And since that time Mike has dedicated his life to saving orphaned pets. He is credited with finding loving, lifelong homes for more dogs and cats than anyone else in history.

"I'm often asked why I've dedicated my life to saving animals. I'll never forget that brave puppy with a broken back, crawling through a gutter in the Bronx, to bring me back to life. And I'll never forget the promise that I made to God that day. How could I possibly think of doing anything else?"


Smelly Cat
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
What are they feeding you?
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat
It's not your fault

They won't take you to the vet
You're obviously not their favorite pet
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
It's not your fault

You may not be a bed of roses
You're not friend to those with noses
I'll miss you before we're done
Or the world will smell as one

Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
What are they feeding you?
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat
It's not your fault

(Phoebe) Oh are we done?

One, two, what's that smell?

Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
What are they feeding you?
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat
You're getting fat

I think that I'm gonna be sick
It's your ears, and nose and pick
Part of it, tempt me

One, two, what's that smell?

All the dogs in the neighborhood
Are saying this for your own good
What, you're fat, so you can't run
No fun, I bet, No fun

Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
Porno makes you eat like that
I saw you in the shopping mall

Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
It's not your fault,
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
It's not your fault
Smelly Cat, Smelly Cat,
It's not your fault

We know what was in your food
They say it might affect your mood

You smell like something dead

One, two, what's that smell?

(Phoebe)Yeah, that's not the song

Listen to the entire Podcast of this show (#421).

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