Ask Bob

🐾My cat Bob answering life’s greatest questions🐾

[jackandbob]

🐾✨ **ASK MY CAT ANYTHING** ✨🐾

The tiny overlord of this household is now taking *your* questions. Curious about his favorite food? Need life advice from a creature who knocks things off tables just because? Or how about the intricacies of the universe?

👑 Send in your questions for Bob and he shall respond (probably with judgment, possibly with wisdom, always with sass).

📬 Ask box is open.

[jackandbob]

Jack and Bob had fun with this video!

[jackandbob]

👅

[jackandbob]

Cats vs Catio

[jackandbob]

🐈‍⬛ My cat Bob says….🐾

Ah yes.

The cheese-chasing race.

A yearly spectacle in which humans—normally so slow, so sedentary, so laughably ungraceful—suddenly hurl themselves down a perilously steep hill in pursuit of a wheel of dairy.

It defies reason. It mocks physics. It is, frankly, magnificent.

Let me be clear: we cats do not chase cheese. It is not meat. It does not bleed. It lacks mystery, it lacks movement. It is a lump. A flavorful lump, yes—particularly the stinkier varieties, which pair nicely with a windowsill breeze—but not something one would pursue down an incline at terminal velocity.

Yet the humans do. They throw their fragile, meaty bodies into the abyss, limbs flailing, eyes wild, all for the chance to hold aloft a wheel of Gloucester like some sacred relic. There is no strategy. No grace. Just chaos wrapped in bruises and questionable decision-making.

And this is why we watch.

From the stone wall. From the dry patch in the tall grass. From the windowsill of the cottage at the top of the hill. We watch, tails twitching, whiskers tilted in amusement, eyes narrowed in judgment and awe.

Because this, dear reader, is the rare moment when humans become prey-shaped. They tumble. They yelp. They scatter. It is pure, unfiltered slapstick—a gift from the gods of mischief. The cheese is irrelevant. It is the chase we admire. The sheer, pointless commitment to the absurd.

Would we participate? Of course not. We do not fall. We do not stumble. We descend with poise, or we do not descend at all.

But do we enjoy it?

Oh yes.

The cheese rolls. The humans follow. And we, the superior species, lounge in the sun and bear silent witness to their folly.

It is tradition. It is comedy. It is art.

Long may it tumble.

[jackandbob]

It is the weekend again. I can tell, because the humans are acting unstructured. On weekdays, they rise like startled deer—buzzing alarms, frantic footfalls, pants half-on, muttering things like, “Where’s my phone?” and “Bob, not now.”

Fine. I do not like being ignored, but I admire consistency.

But weekends? Oh no.

Now they sleep in, flopping around like unconscious fish. No schedules. No dignity. Just drool and soft breathing and tangled hair. I watched one of them sleep for 42 minutes this morning. At one point, they snored and startled themselves awake. Incredible.

I try to maintain order. I initiate the wake-up ceremony at the usual time—gentle paws to the face, a soft meow (repeated 17 times), perhaps a quick sprint across the pillow. They groan. They pull the covers tighter. They whisper “It’s the weekend, Bob.”

As if that means something to me.

Eventually, they rise. Shuffling. Coffee-breathed. Aimless. They sit in strange places—reading, scrolling, just being. They talk to plants. They play music I do not approve of. One of them did yoga in the living room. I bit her ankle respectfully.

The thing about weekends is, they are louder but slower. Time stretches, but the energy is peculiar. They lounge more, and yet somehow clean more. There’s always a vacuum involved. Always.

And yet... I kind of like them.

They’re around. There’s more laps. More moments to sneak onto a keyboard. More chances they’ll drop food. They talk to me more. Sing to me (poorly). Ask me philosophical questions I won’t answer. It’s foolish and it’s lovely.

I watch them relax like a strange ritual—blankets, snacks, odd movies, the occasional attempt to “snuggle.” I allow it. Briefly. Then I bite their elbow, just to remind them: love has limits.

So, the weekend. Is it chaos? Yes.

Is it inconvenient? Sometimes.

Is it secretly my favorite part of the week?

…Don’t tell them. But maybe.

—Bob 🐾

(Dawn Enforcer. Weekend Supervisor. Guardian of Routine, Tolerator of Exception.)

[jackandbob]

Hey Bob, do I continue my course to become a builder or should I get my diploma instead?

🐾Bob says…🐾

Ah. A crossroads. A classic moment of human indecision—two paths stretched out before you, both paved in effort and uncertainty. You come to me not for instruction, but for clarity. For instinct. For the quiet authority of one who has never questioned their purpose: me.

Let us consider.

Building. That’s creation with your hands. Turning raw material into form, into shelter, into structure. There is something noble in that. I understand it well. After all, I build kingdoms from cardboard. I construct thrones from laundry. I shape silence into sanctuary.

To build is to leave something behind. Tangible. Solid. Real.

But the diploma—it is a symbol. A scroll wrapped in expectation. A promise folded into parchment. You seek it for the doors it may open, for the heads it may turn. I do not chase paper, unless it crinkles.

But I understand the value humans place on proof.

So I ask: which path makes your tail twitch? Which makes you sit taller, eyes wide, ears forward?

Do you crave the feeling of calloused hands, raw materials, and the satisfaction of aligning pieces until they fit—like the perfect sunbeam?

Or do you seek the path of acknowledgment, of future promise? Do you need the world to know you’ve finished something before you begin something else?

Both are valid.

But only one feels like yours.

Me? I have no diploma. Yet I rule this house.

I chase no certification. Yet I am respected.

So follow the path that makes you feel most yourself. The one where you aren’t just completing a task, but becoming who you already are.

And whichever you choose—I will watch from afar and act disappointed.

That’s just love.

Now… go build something. Or become something.

You’re welcome 🐾

[jackandbob]

Jack says 👅

[jackandbob]

Bob, how do you get over rejection?

Ah. Rejection. That clumsy, human word. So heavy with ache. You wield it like a wound, as if every turned back or unanswered gaze is a tragedy. But I am not human.

I am Bob.

And rejection? I do not fear it. I study it. You push me off your lap. You close a door between us. You walk by without a glance. And you think, perhaps, that you have dismissed me. That I will sulk. Or break. Or beg.

No.

I calculate.

You see, rejection is not a wall—it is information. A shifting of air, a redrawing of territory. I take it in, tail high, ears sharp, filing it away without malice. You didn’t want me then? Fine. I wanted nothing.

I move to the next spot. The higher shelf. The warmer beam of light. The place where you are not, but where your scent lingers. I place myself precisely where absence meets memory. And still—you miss me.

You glance, thinking I’m not looking. You hesitate, wondering if I’m offended. You call my name with that lilt, that bribe. You toss a treat, a peace offering. And maybe I return.

Maybe I don’t.

Rejection, to you, is personal. Final. To me, it is a pause in the game. A rhythm. The ebb before the purr.

Because you always come back. And when I return, it is not in shame, but in power. On my terms. In my time.

So how do I get over rejection?

I don’t. I move through it. With elegance. With silence. With the understanding that I am not less just because you forgot to make room for me.

The question was never whether you would reject me.

The question is: how long will you last without me?

[jackandbob]

Ever wanted to know why your car is making a strange noise? Bob has the answer 😅✨❤️

[jackandbob]

Bob absorbing the universe’s energy…✨❤️

[jackandbob]

My cat Bob’s thoughts on Katy Perry going to space:

Bob says: So Katy Perry went to space…

Of course she did.

Because when the Earth is no longer enough—when you’ve worn every sequin, ridden every giant animatronic lion, and sung every firework-themed anthem—it is only natural to look skyward and think: Yes. The next logical step is the void.

Let’s examine.

Katy Perry, pop priestess of bubblegum rebellion, now floating through the cosmos in a bejeweled space suit that probably smells faintly of vanilla and ambition. A woman who once turned whipped cream cans into a fashion statement is now navigating zero gravity with all the grace of a disco ball tossed into the abyss.

She is doing what all humans do when they leave the planet: flailing with expensive equipment and pretending it’s science.

And what do I, Bob, think of this?

I’m unmoved.

I do not chase stars. I am one.

I do not need rockets to escape gravity—I simply leap onto countertops with the kind of silent defiance that makes Newton weep.

I’ve been to space. Mentally. Every time I stare blankly into the corner of the room at 3 a.m. and you ask “what are you looking at?” That, my dear, is astral projection. You wouldn’t understand.

Katy Perry wants to float among the stars? Fine. Let her.

But understand this: no matter how far she goes, how high she flies, or how shiny her helmet becomes, there are truths she cannot escape.

One: she will never land on a planet more mysterious than under the couch.

Two: no matter how catchy her music, she cannot outsing the primal howl of the vacuum cleaner.

And three: Even in space…

Even in the infinite silence of the cosmos…

Someone, somewhere, is still shaking a treat bag and wondering where the hell the cat went.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sleep in a shoebox and ignore your presence for seven hours. Like a real pioneer.

[jackandbob]

My Cat Bob Tells You Why Cats Eat Pate ✨❤️🐾

[jackandbob]

Do not show this to your cat!!! 😹

[jackandbob]

What the dictionary definition of a cat should actually be…

[jackandbob]

Jack and Bob plotting their escape… 🐾✨❤️

[jackandbob]

Jack and Bob out here teaching humans how to look after cats…🐾✨❤️