Tag Archives: funny story

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The Cat in the Bag

English: Young Maine Coon cat in paper bagThe Cat in the Bag

James R. Aist

Cats can be not only good little buddies, but also good entertainment. That is, if you pay attention and take time to interact with them. This funny story took place because I paid attention and took a moment to interact with our cat, Clyde, at just the right time.

We were living in a small, two-story frame house on Snyder Hill, just outside of Ithaca, in the Finger Lakes Region of upstate NY. One lazy Saturday afternoon, shortly after we had returned from shopping and were unloading our shopping bags in the appropriate rooms, I lingered for a moment, in the small upstairs bedroom at the end of the hallway, to put away some of the spoils of our shopping spree. Then I heard behind me the familiar sound of “someone” rattling a paper shopping bag that, innocently, I had left on the floor. So, I turned to see exactly what I expected to see: Clyde was in the bag poking and scratching mischievously at the sides, just to hear the mysterious noise it made when he struck it.

Now, this happened not to be your ordinary, run-of-the-mill paper grocery bag; this one had those paper loops at the top which served as handles for ease of toting. Ignoring the handles for the moment, I began to playfully poke and scratch at the bag from the outside, also mischievously, to see if I could spook the cat and get in on the fun. Well, it wasn’t long before Clyde became so spooked by (what must have seemed to him as) the bag poking and scratching back, that he panicked and burst suddenly out of the bag at breakneck speed in order to escape the “bag monster” within. Problem was, he was ignoring the handles on the bag as much as I was. Until, that is, it became evident that in exiting the bag in a panic, he had accidentally put his head through one of the handles and was dragging the bag ever so close behind him. When he heard the noise of the bag behind him, he looked back in full stride to see what was making the noise and saw that the bag was actually chasing him! This discovery put a sudden look of terror on his face, and he kicked it into high gear. I had no idea he could even run that fast.

By this time I was beginning to laugh uncontrollably, as compassion for my little buddy had not yet kicked in. Out the doorway and down the hallway he bolted, with the ensnared bag keeping pace with every leap and bound he made. Just then (after I had had my jollies, that is) my heart became flooded with compassion, and I ran after him to free him of the “bag monster.” Of course, this just added to his panic attack, because now he had both a “bag monster” and a “giant monster” chasing him! So, he went into overdrive. Turning the corner, he raced down the stairs at lightning speed, banged into the closet door at the bottom, turned left and began making circles through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, the living room again, etc. I was hopelessly chasing behind him, desperately trying to grasp the bag from behind and set him free (By the way, have you ever chased behind a paper bag moving at ~ 10 MPH, stooping forward every second or two to grasp the bottom of the bag with one hand, while laughing uncontrollably? I think not. Well, I can assure you, it’s no easy task!).

Fortunately, Clyde began to tire out, and I was finally able to get control of the bag, and, with expert precision, extract his head from the handle. Now, I’m sure he was thankful later that I had rescued him from the “bag monster”, but his immediate reaction was to run from both the bag and me as fast as he could go, the little ingrate!

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The Mass Deposit

English: The Louvre museum as seen from the ri...The Mass Deposit

 James R. Aist

 This cute little story took place in June of 1972. I had just completed a postdoctoral research study in Zurich and had the unique opportunity to travel around Europe for about three months before starting my new job as an Assistant Professor at Cornell University. My wife and I had an eleven-month-old daughter, Beverly, who was our first-born and our pride and joy. After a brief stay in the Swiss Alps, we headed for Paris to begin our tour of Europe. Being the faithful Roman Catholics that we were, we were determined to attend Mass on the coming Sunday morning. Since we also planned to take a guided tour of the prestigious Louvre Museum after lunch, we found a church just across the river Seine from the Louvre and attended Mass there. This was a very old, smallish, rather ornate Catholic church that, from the outside, gave the impression of a mini-cathedral. Everything about that Mass was done in the high-church tradition, if you know what I mean. The Sanctuary was only about one-third full, and most of the worshipers seemed to be very devout, and very serious, little old ladies. Both the Sanctuary and the proceedings were quite formal and dignified, and we stood out as obviously being American tourists. Or so it seemed to us, anyway. We were determined to be just as formal and dignified as the others, so as not to draw attention to ourselves and distract from the very somber and serious tone of the Mass. We knew that would be a tall order, what with our baby daughter and all, but we were hoping that her generous breakfast of mother’s milk would keep her satisfied, at least until the Mass had ended. But we were definitely not prepared for what happened next.

Everything was fine until about mid-way through the Mass. Beverly began to get fidgety, as one might expect of a young baby, and we had no other way of keeping her from “crying out loud” (literally) than to let her down to the floor so that she could crawl around a bit. We were reluctant to put her down, however, because that floor was visibly dusty and dirty as one might expect in such an ancient church with limited finances for upkeep. We were afraid that she would get dirty crawling around on the floor, and we didn’t want to have to take her through the Louvre looking like that. Besides, what would those dear little old ladies think of us if Beverly would happen to get away from us for even a moment and begin to crawl up the center aisle, creating a spectacle? But we had no choice really, so down she went. I was sitting next to the center aisle, so it fell to me to keep her corralled. Everything seemed to be going just fine at first, so I began to pay more attention to the Priest than to Beverly. Next time I checked on her, she wasn’t there! So I wheeled around in the pew, and there she was in the middle aisle on her hands and knees about half-way back to the front door of the church. When she saw me looking at her, she turned around and began crawling back to me. So, as inconspicuously as possible (relevant factoid: I’m six feet-five inches tall and weigh well over 200 pounds!) I crouched down,  got slowly out of the pew, quietly made my way back to her and picked her up. And that’s when I saw it. There was a trail on the floor behind her consisting of five or six little brown balls that had bailed out of her diaper while she was crawling back to me! Needless to say, I had a mixed reaction to this development. On the one hand, the scenario – all things considered – was hilarious beyond belief. But on the other hand, I didn’t dare even crack a smile, much less laugh out loud, for fear of creating a scene that would seriously compromise the solemnity and dignity of the Mass. So, as quickly and as quietly as possible, I returned the little darling to her mother, secured a couple of facial tissues from the “baby bag”, and retraced my steps to the scene of the “crime” and retrieved the “mass deposit” that Beverly had innocently left in the center aisle for all to see. Little did I know that it would be Beverly who would make the floor “dirty” and not the other way around!  And, I could see from the looks on the faces of all those devout  little old ladies that it was all they could do to keep from bursting into laughter themselves.

I have to admit that we were eager for the Mass to end, so that we could get out of there and give vent to our pent-up laughter; it really was a hoot! And God still laughs to this day every time I tell this story. If you listen carefully, you can hear Him now. He’s the one with the deep-pitched, booming laughter.

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Plumpin’ the Puppies

Beagle de 60 dias

Plumpin’ the Puppies

James R. Aist

[DISCLAIMER: I meant no harm, no one really got hurt bad, I am opposed to cruelty to animals and I provide the answer to the big “research” question at the end (so that you will have no excuse for trying this at home; shame on you, in advance, for even thinking of it!)]

When I was growing up in central Arkansas, we had Beagle dogs for rabbit hunting and, of course, for instant affection and validation anytime, whether we wanted it or not. When I was 10 years old, my family re-located from our dairy farm in Cypress Valley to an equally rural area in the vicinity of Naylor, where we moved into a parsonage, located at the end of a dirt road off a dirt road; Daddy had received his very first assignment as a newly ordained Methodist minister. During our first Spring there, one of our Beagles gave birth to a litter of puppies, and we kept two of them for ourselves. I luuuuuv Beagle puppies! They are so soft, so cute and so affectionate; and, so much fun to play with.

Every school-day afternoon while the puppies were still quite small, I could hardly wait for the school bus to get to the end of our dirt road. I would spring off of the school bus and run all the way to our house so that I could spend the next half hour or so just playing with “my” precious little puppies. Of course, these little darlings seemed to always be hungry when I got home, and I liked nothing more than to bring out a small pitcher of milk and a couple of cereal bowls and settle down with the puppies in a patch of fresh green lawn beside the house. They would eagerly lap up all the milk in the bowl, and I would just as eagerly give them “seconds” just to watch them do it all over again. What fun!

Well, one day I got an idea for what would turn out to be the very first of many biological experiments I would conduct over a long and successful career in biological research. I was pondering the gusto with which these innocent little biological units would scarf down all the milk in their bowls, including the “seconds”, and it occurred to me that it would be interesting to find out just how much milk they would drink if I provided an unending supply of it. Would they drink only until they were full, or would they just keep on drinking until they just couldn’t keep any more milk down? With an innocent curiosity and no malicious intent whatsoever (keep in mind that I was just an 11 year old boy and I really loved those little puppies), I resolved to find the answer to this monumental question.

So, the next day I filled up the milk bowls once and then twice, and then I went where no boy had gone before (at least not to my knowledge); I filled the bowls yet a third time! To my surprise, these valiant troopers just kept on lapping up the milk and wagging their tails for more. After the third round of refills, I began to get a little worried, because now, the puppies were visibly swollen in the middle. Yet, they weren’t whining or whimpering yet, so I filled their bowls for a fourth time, determined to get the final answer to my seemingly innocent research question, but without inflicting any harm on the little guys. This time, I noticed that they were slowing down but still lapping and swallowing eagerly, and so I decided to take some additional, preliminary data on the progress of the experiment. With no little trepidation, I reached down and very gently squeezed their swollen bellies between my thumb and index finger to assess the degree of danger I might just possibly be exposing the thoroughly plumped puppies to. Their bellies were now tight as a drum, and this put a serious scare into me. Had I gone too far, already? Will they bust open right before my eyes? If they do bust open, how can I explain it to my parents so as to escape the punishment I so richly deserve for heartlessly murdering these tiny little helpless bundles of life just to conduct a silly scientific experiment? So, like a flash, I jerked away the milk bowls to minimize any further potential damage, and I was not prepared at all for what happened next.

I observed that these two little puppies turned, in unison, to walk away, still lapping and swallowing as fast as they could, but now just to try and keep down the last of the milk that was dribbling out of their mouths. I observed also that they were breathing heavily and with great difficulty, because there was no room left in their little bodies for a lungful of air, thanks to their excessive intake of cow’s milk. And finally, I observed that their now-bloated bellies were actually dragging along the ground as they waddled slowly away. In some sort of sick way I suppose, this scene was to me both humorous to watch and scary to contemplate, at one and the same time. But, as I continued to keep my eye on them, it became apparent that they were, indeed, way too full, but not to the point of bodily harm. This realization enabled me to take a deep sigh of relief and get an, albeit somewhat sinister, little chuckle out of the entire affair, especially the ending.

So, what is the answer to the big question: how much milk will Beagle puppies drink if they are given an unending supply? The answer is… just as much as they can possibly keep down with constant lapping and swallowing, once it starts to come back out as fast as it goes back in! Oh, and by the way, my parents never found out about this experiment. Hey, what they don’t know won’t hurt me, right?

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The Corn Flake Camouflage Caper

English: Oatmeal and cornflakes Christmas cook...The Corn Flake Camouflage Caper

James R. Aist

When I was growing up in rural Arkansas, there were five or six of us kids in the household at any one time, and two parents. We were relatively poor, but never destitute. Poor meant that where food was concerned, nothing was wasted, not even stale, soggy corn flakes. Now, corn flakes was just about the cheapest dry cereal available at the time, so Mama would buy several of the over-sized boxes of them at a time, especially if they were on sale. This was a successful strategy to stretch our precious few dollars, but it contained the seeds of its own destruction. The breaking point came after we had been offered nothing but corn flakes for breakfast for about three or four weeks running, and it was made clear that it was going to be only corn flakes until our stock of the golden morsels was depleted. Mama was trying to use up her stockpile of corn flakes before they got too stale and soggy. We kids were sympathetic to her cause, but the thought of corn flakes again was more than we could stomach…literally. And it was already too late; the corn flakes were now officially stale and soggy. It was time to take a stand.

So, we kids talked it over and, with great trepidation, we “announced” to Mama at the next breakfast that we were not going to eat any more corn flakes for the foreseeable future, and especially not stale and soggy ones. I think that Mama was a bit amused that we would conspire to rebel over such a seemingly trivial issue, and so she purposed in her heart to feign compliance while all the time plotting to turn the tables on our little rebellion. The challenge had been issued and Mama was more than happy to take us on. This trivial dispute was to become a friendly competition thoroughly enjoyed by both sides as the drama unfolded over the ensuing weeks.

Suddenly we were enjoying other choices for breakfast and were becoming convinced that our solidarity against the powers that be had been wonderfully rewarded. Then we began to notice something a little strange about some of the side dishes at our family meals. Could it be that there were now corn flakes, of all things, in the meatloaf? We compared notes with each other, and sure enough…corn flakes in the meatloaf! We laughed out loud. That really was clever of her, albeit thoroughly sneaky. Now we were engaged in a game of subterfuge and camouflage with Mama, and it was delightful. So, in a spirit of levity, we declared “OK, we’re on to you; there’s corn flakes in the meatloaf, and we’re not eating any more cornflakes!” With a sly, coy smile, Mama replied, “We’ll see about that.”

And that seemed to be the end of it. That is, until the cornbread looked a little funny one day…but what is that? What are those strange, yellowish, orange things in the cornbread? Aha! Corn flakes in the cornbread; don’t anybody eat the cornbread! And on and on it went: first, corn flakes in the meatloaf; then, corn flakes in the cornbread; then, corn flakes in the oatmeal; then, corn flakes in the cookies; and so on. It was a fight to the finish. Mama was determined to make us eat the stale, soggy cornflakes, one way or another, until they were all gone, and we were equally determined to sniff them out and refuse to be outsmarted, until dear old Mama ran out of clever and creative ideas to disguise them. Finally, Mama called for a truce, and we all shared a hearty laugh or two over the corn flake camouflage caper. Truth be told, I kind of hated to see it come to an end; it was fun while it lasted.

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