Grand Empress Dowager Brandy and I were having a pleasant afternoon. I typed away on my laptop while she dozed by my side on the couch, intermittently interjecting corrections and suggestions for grammatical flair.
She smiled at me, her sleepy eyes blinking, beckoning me to scratch her head and rub her ears. I of course obliged. Her purring filled the air like so many warning shots. Warning shots I ignored.
She looks so innocent, doesn’t she? I thought we were getting along. She let me touch her foot! Aww!
I thought we were friends …
I thought we were friends …?
I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!
I was wrong. At least in the moment. Let me introduce you to my latest kitty battle scar acquisition:
I thought we were having fun. Isn’t that how it always starts? The handshake misjudged for a hug, the “I tolerate you” misjudged for an “I love you,” the dagger misjudged for a toothpick?
She extended her little white foot — demurely, taunting me. “Go ahead, I dare you,” she seemed to say. Despite my better judgement — and the memory of so many other temptations gone awry — I succumbed to the siren’s song.
I reached for the little white foot. I held it. I stroked it. I took a picture to send to my husband with the message, “Hope Japan is fun. Nobody misses you here. Brandy and my relationship soars like a catnip mouse through the stratosphere. We are registered at Tuna Town USA.”
But alas, my hubris bested me once again. No sooner had I snapped the triumphant shot that the beast awoke. Faster than I could say, “Spare my life!” the Empress Dowager Brandy yowled her disapproval, leapt at my shoulder, and sunk her teeth and claws into me.
I had been punished for my indiscretion.
“And why were you punished?” Brandy now growl-meows (greowls?) at me from the floor, having unlocked her furious jaws after I yelped for mercy.
“Because I am stupid,” I tell her with head hung.
“And?” she presses.
“I know not my place.”
Satisfied, she stalks off to the bedroom to no doubt scoot across my pillow.
And such is life with a kitty. You’d think I’d learn my lesson, but my limbs are a battlefield of kitty devotion. And I suspect yours are too.
How often have you been petting your cat, and all is right with the world, when suddenly — BAM! MEOW! HISS! — your kitty has added her own “stick ‘n’ poke” tattoo to your collection. Sometimes we know better but cannot resist (like my recent lapse in judgement); other times the kitty’s whim changes without any indication, and we are blindly attacked. Either way, such attacks are a reality of life with cats, yet we always go back for more.
So now it’s your turn. Regale us in the comments with tales of the battles you have survived! I showed you mine, now you show me yours — show us your kitty battle scars!
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