Move over Mitt — strapping a live dog in a pet carrier to the roof of your car just got so yesterday.
When one’s beloved cat dies, there are several options for what to do with its body.
You could bury him, have his remains cremated or turn him into a helicopter. Dutch artist Bart Jansen chose the latter, according to the Daily Mail.
His cat Orville, named after legendary aviator Orville Wright, was stuffed and then strapped to a radio control helicopter created by Arjen Beltman in March. The flying feline is now on display at the Kunstrai art festival in Amsterdam, according to the Mail. — Huffington Post
I know what you’re thinking: This is just lame. Why wait until the cat is dead? What’s the point? And you’re 100% right. But for reasons other than you might think.
Guido and I have cohabitated with many cats over the years. At one point we had 12; now we’re down to 6, not counting neighbors who drop by for a visit, snuggle, or snack. That means we’ve buried quite a few as well, because even cats don’t last forever. They leave this world to attend refresher courses in hell before returning to earth. Specifically, my house.
Some of our cats came equipped with factory-installed anti-gravitational devices. When we tried to lower them into a basin of water for a bath — trust me when I tell you this was only in extremely dire emergencies that involved dead creatures, oozing wounds, unspeakable odors, etc. — they’d activate the device and no amount of downward force could overcome it. It’s a remarkable phenomenon which leaves one awed and bloody.
Obviously, getting these cats to fly would not have been a problem, so long as they remained alive. No batteries included — and none needed. In a strange sort of way, they were hydro powered.
I personally launched several living cats as well. I remember one who had this nasty trick of waiting until I fell asleep, then leaping on my nuts and going Joe Palooka on my dick tip. That cat developed a close personal relationship with the bedroom ceiling fan, which in turn acquainted him with the back window verticals. The flight was successful. That cat had the Right Stuff.
Then there was the stray who liked sleeping on the car engine overnight. One cold morning I started the car, only to hear this horrendous knocking sound under the hood. I hop out, open ‘er up, and some grease-coated she-bat from the depths of hell commences her orbit, narrowly missing my face. Nothing but good news: the engine was undamaged, and the cat never returned.
Anyway, given my experience, I’m not even slightly impressed by a dead cat affixed to a flying plastic model. I suspect the cats aren’t either. Preparing this essay, I asked two of our current pride (duMont and Harlot) whether or not they would mind if I used their corpses as flying machines. They both had the same answer: We don’t give a shit what you do now — why would we care what you do when we’re dead? Just have dinner ready — is that asking too much?
What I’ve learned in life: Tails? You lose.