Buddy the dog would be some sort of emo hipster poet.
Note: He doesn’t LOOK like one, but he sure acts like it.
Wonton would be the blind spiritualist:
Miso would be a professional masseuse. None of that funny business!
My late Bulldog would be a burden on society.
Or plus size model.
My cat Tim disappears for days at a time. He’d obviously be an explorer. Or a hobo. Or maybe a traveling salescat?
He also likes to drop small objects in his water bowl. Scientist/dishwasher?
If he doesn’t buckle down and focus on something, he’ll never amount to anything - he’ll probably be living at home forever, dammit!
Australian Shepherds:
Ty – bouncer at a dive type bar
Bonnie – lap dancer
I can see cats as criminals; every cat on the planet has perfected the Guilty Look. Maybe they actually wouldn’t be very good criminals, as guilty as they always look.
My Riley would be an assassin… or maybe a ninja. He’s really good about appearing out of nowhere just in time to get underfoot and cause me to do the boogaloo to not step on him.
Crow the cat…bread dough kneader, escape artist, hidey-hole occupier.
Daphne the lab mix…Assassin of postal workers, professor of dog poop studies.
I think my ferret would be a professional stunt double. She enjoys jumping from the nightstand to the table, occasionally doing flips in the process.
If you have a glass of water sitting on the table, she’ll submerge her head in water for as long as she can hold her breath, drawing circles with her nose on the bottom of the glass. I don’t really know what occupation that would be, but it seems to be one of her favorite things to do. A professional apple-bobber?
Boxer pair:
Mojo - bouncer at a bar. He’s big and cuddly and can bark like he’s about to rip your face off but he’s all bark.
Kaia - Axe murderer. I sometimes wake up and she’s staring at me like she’d slit my throat if she had opposable thumbs.
My grey cat would have been a professional killer for the KGB (a Natasha Fatale type) who has been exiled to a remote tropical republic for being a little to enthusiastic about her job. Now she strolls around the place in her bathrobe stubbing her cigarettes out on people.
Barbara cat is a Canadian Mountie who likes to sing R and B love songs at karaoke night, but can’t handle his alcohol.
Teelio the cockatiel would be a Valentino movie played really really fast.
George the conure would have been a Spinal-Tap style heavy metal drummer.
My two cats would be moderately successful Special Olympics athletes.
Charlie, the male Siamese, is endearingly cross eyed. River is a pure white little female.
Neither one is blessed with much intelligence (they have a great ceiling to floor multi-level cat tree that they don’t know what to do with), nor are they particularly graceful. But they try hard. And they’re happy in their simple little world.
I think Lucia would be a gymnast. When she’s doing her personal grooming, she sometimes sits with both feet in the air and her toes pointed outward, and looks like a girl on a balance beam.
My older border collie, Gus, would be the sheriff, and there would be no shenanigans in his county.
The new one, Wiley, is still too young. At the moment I’m thinking he might be a 2nd grader who’s destined to repeat. At least once.
Frankie fat cat would be a wealthy shut-in who has meat delivered several times a day, right to her very cushy boudoir, I’m picturing a bigger Zsa Zsa Gabor.
Sunny kitty would be a mental health nurse, possibly with kids. She takes a lot of crap from the dogs but never stops smiling and trying to give hugs.
The female chihuahua? Dictator
The male chihuahua? Clown
Toby would be a referee. When the cats are play fighting, he gets between them, and gives them each a stern look.
Winston:
http://image52.webshots.com/752/0/51/34/2450051340027528800VsniOH_fs.jpg
http://image86.webshots.com/86/8/26/95/2393826950027528800QptxkZ_fs.jpg
Fur model seems to be a natural if not politically correct choice.
My big gray cat (who died eleven years ago) was, and possibly still is, a buddha. He turned would-be cat enemies into friends. He calmed the fears of anxious cats. Human beings, even ones who were not cat people, confessed their misdeeds to him. He exuded calm benevolence, and his Harley-loud purr was healing. I still miss him.
I think many bodhisattvas do decide to be reborn as cats. Others often appear as cats. It just proves how often language gets in the way of communication.
Fuzzy, my big old Himalayan, would be a frat boy. He likes to stay up late, and keeps the household awake with his barfing.
Chibi, my tiny little four-pound Himalayan, would be a midget porn star, perhaps. Or a 2-dollar hooker.