I have just begun covering up with a blanket at night in the last week or so. The nights have been mild and thanks to hormonal changes, I often find myself basking in the fires of my internal central heating. Early yesterday morning I stirred a bit in my sleep and pulled the sheet and cotton blanket a bit higher over my shoulders. That was when the blanket caught the straw on the uncovered drink on my bedside table, spilling it on my leg, the side of the bed, and on the floor.
I stumbled out of the room and grabbed a large towel to blot the soaking carpet. Naturally, when I sat down on the edge of the bed to start the drying-up process, FatCat was right next to me, thinking it was a good time to
Naturally, Brutus saw my reclining as a sign that I had absolutely nothing to do - after all, I was just laying there. He began slowly and painfully walking his way up my legs to stare at me, ending up between me and the edge of the bed. Now, I have heard and even said many things over the years about how cats seem to routinely defy the rules of physics. There was just one thing I didn't realize until Brutus moved in with The Lunatic and company. Somehow a 13 1/2 pound cat can put enough pressure on the blood vessels in your legs that you are convinced that a small van, or maybe even a large tour bus, has run you over and parked on your broken body. I'm serious! After a couple of pats and a stern reprimand telling him not to screw around with the vertical blinds, Brutus moved on and allowed us to get some more sleep.
In usual occasional-jerk-cat fashion, Brutus was right there in our faces and plates when we started to eat our breakfast. Another stern talking-to and he moved down to the foot of the bed. (One of the reasons for his terribly forward behavior recently is undoubtedly that Liz was away from home for a few days and therefore not around to distract him.) Breakfast being done with, the FatCat went back to his bedroom.
About mid-day I decided I wanted to eat a container of my favorite yogurt, and Fatso was right there, trying to muscle his way into my yogurt container. More chiding, more laying at the foot of the bed, and I sat down the empty yogurt container, telling him that he could help himself, per Liz's telling me how much he loooooves yogurt. So Brutie-Patootie licked the jar for a few minutes, left, returned to lick yogurt for a few more minutes, and left, and then IT HAPPENED.
Trent was sitting on the throne of meditation when Brutus arrived for the third time. As he turned around, affording me a view of his backside (Why are cats so convinced that everyone wants to see their heinie-hole, anyway?), I was greeted with a horrific sight. The cat who was on my bed, on the sheets and blanket that had just been put on the bed the previous evening, had a trail of diarrhea still attached to his rear, along with some down one of his legs. Blech.
All I really thought was that there was no way I was allowing cat sludge on my fresh bed, or even one with soiled linens. I automatically grabbed the cat while I scanned the area for a paper towel or napkin. Poor Trent! I starting calling for help while Brutus yowled and growled at the same time as he starting chomping the living daylights out of my hand. Hey, it's not like it was an important hand. It was only the right hand of a right-handed human, no big deal. I gave up and let go of the cat when he scored an incredibly painful bite, and set out to wipe the offending cat tush.
The good news was that when Fatso jumped off the bed to escape, the stink lava that was hanging off his behind fell on the carpet. I know this because I found it with my foot. Going as fast as I could while walking only on the toes of one of my feet, I was in hot pursuit. When he saw that I had followed him to his bedroom, instead of hiding under the bed, he glared boldly at this human who had forgotten her place. Acting on instinct, I distracted him by giving him some treats and wiped his furry behind and legs.
After dousing my bloody hand with copious amounts of hydrogen peroxide and finally stopping the bleeding, I was able to remove the carpet bomb from both the floor and the bottom of my foot. I sat down and looked at all of the bite marks on my hand. There aren't that many. Less than 20. Okay, 19. I showed Trent the back of my hand and commented about how close the deepest puncture had come to a vein. Close call.
A much closer call than I had thought, actually. As the day progressed I came to realize that Killer Cat had actually nicked the vein with his fangs of death. I gradually developed a lump which kept growing (this is one of the moments when life with anticoagulants gets a bit too exciting) until my hand was hurting something fierce. Brutus had exacted his revenge, and the bleeding under the skin got increasingly uncomfortable. I know there's nothing to do now but wait for it to heal, but I had to share this crazy wild-feline insanity with you, my dear readers. I hope you find it as funny as I did in spite of the discomfort. Oh, and to prove that I really did get an owie, here's a side-by-side of a Katrina hand and one that looks like it's not quite standard equipment.
Cats. What can I say? Stay away from the pointy ends, of which there seem to be about three dozen? And when things just get ridiculously out of hand, or out of paw, sometimes you just have to laugh.
p.s. And to think that I totally skipped the part of the day during which I took a package of chicken out of the fridge and it leaked all over the kitchen floor, as well as my former poop-foot...
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