57 minutes ago
Thursday, July 8, 2010
A Catfight. Literally.
My mom has a cat named Mr. Darcy, and he is the very spawn of Satan. He only has eyes for my mom and enjoys leaping out from under her kitchen table to punch people with his clawless front paws.
He got mad the other day because I wouldn't let him maul our new pup, Penny, and he popped out from under the kitchen table and went to town on my leg. He must have planned the attack because he used his back paws to slash the bottom of my leg while gnawing elsewhere.
I may have said a bad word or two.
Mr. Darcy got a timeout in the dark bathroom, where he meowed pitifully and hit the door with his pathetic clawless front paws. The girls were told not to go anywhere near him, and I went to attempt to bandage my gimpy leg with 67 band-aids.
I looked super hot at the pool that night.
I like cats a lot. I always had a cat growing up, but when I married T (an avowed cat-hater), my track record went South fast. It was like the cats sent out some sort of Tweet or email that I somehow joined the other team when I married T.
A month after we were married, our landlord's cat scratched me under one eye and the swelling made it look like T had taken a baseball bat to my face. It was so bad that my college advisor pulled me aside to tell me that she volunteered at a local battered women's shelter and did I need to talk? She didn't really buy the whole "I got beat up by a cat" story.
If I get rabies, I hope you will keep reading this blog.