When something startles you, is your first instinct to immediately whip out a staggering array of razor-sharp knives and start swinging them wildly about?
Of course not. Civilized beings don’t just up and violently eviscerate the closest living thing simply because a car backfired.
And that’s why, despite their amazing agility, resilience, and ability to grow thumbs, cats have failed to become the dominant species on the planet. I mentioned before that laying claim to things by peeing on them probably had a lot to do with halting any advancement they were making in the area of culture, but certainly the habit of unpredictably slicing up your neighbors made compiling a workable system of etiquette utterly impossible.
What I’m getting at is that yesterday in the CimC home, the sound of a broom handle striking the floor was sufficient to cause the World’s Sweetest Kitteh Ever to transform, in precisely one sixteenth of a second, from purring fuzzball to whirling flesh-shredder.
Yup, DG cut me up but good.
My face took the rake from the back feet while my throat received about twenty-six smaller scratches from Deej’s front paws. The lip cut is hell of deep. Took several minutes to stop the bleeding and I’m pretty sure there will be a permanent scar. Shaving should be a real hoot.
DG felt terrible about it, I could tell. About an hour after the incident, Karin and I were sitting on the couch watching TV when DG’s little head popped up from the other side of the coffee table and stared at me with his big, black pupils. After a few moments, I spoke his name and he emitted the cutest tiny meow in reply. Scientists would tell me I’m an idiot, but I’m certain that little meow was an apology.