Cats Suck

I was in 5th grade. I had just moved to the district the previous year, and besides my best friend Jill who lived across the street, I didn't make many friends. Finally, in Mr. Ellenwood's class, I met a second best friend, Jacquie.

We always sat next to each other, and secretly passed notes back and forth. When we had spelling quizzes, the way we would grade them in class would be to switch papers with the person sitting next to us, and our partner would check it for us and vice versa. Jacquie and I always switched with each other, since we sat adjacent to one another. If one of us misspelled a word -- and it was usually off by only a letter or two -- we would secretly correct it for the other one by using our pen to continuously write over the mistake so we would get higher grades. Though, hardly any of mine were ever spelled incorrectly. ^_^

Jacquie lived close by, only a few blocks away, and we would hang out together all the time. And since we were in the same class together, we also spent recess together. I don't remember how this came about, but our imaginations created this fantasy land, a planet in another galaxy called K.A.T. Original, right?

Have you ever read the book series, The Animorphs? It was about these kids who had special powers to turn into any animal they touched. But, if they stayed in the animal form too long, they would be stuck like that forever. Our K.A.T. planet had somewhat the same premise, without being stuck in one form or another. We pretended that we were originally from this planet full of cats. Much more intelligent cats than we have on Earth, of course, with language capabilities and complex enough brains and thoughts to run our own planet. Our real bodies were cats, of course, and we were living on Earth as humans.

Ironic, now, considering my relationship with cats at the moment. My uncle Mike and his wife went to California last week for vacation. In their absence, I took care of his house and his pets. One dog, Heidi, one cat, Kitty, and a new, fostered cat named Milly.

Kitty absolutely loathes Milly. He wants nothing to do with her, and the second he sees her, he starts hissing and flipping out. Therefore, the two must be separated at all times.

Kitty is allowed outside, but only with a harness attached to a leash so he doesn't get away and get lost. He's been used to this harness for years, and simply just waits and allows it to be put on him. One morning, in the middle of the week, he wanted to go outside like any other day. Except on this particular day, he had some kind of stick up his ass.

He walked to the back door and stood by it looking up at me, meowing. I grabbed his harness from the counter, and joined him by the door. He became excited and inched closer, waiting to be let out. I kneeled down, ready to slip on his harness like every other day. The second I moved my hands to his head, he completely freaked out, and decided he wanted to inflict some unnecessary pain.

He grabbed my arm with his front paws, claws outstretched, and sunk his teeth into my skin.

This picture in no way does justice to what actually transpired on my flesh after his bite. I couldn't believe the bruise he gave me from that. It was actually much darker and bigger than what the picture can show. I swear I think he's bipolar.

Two days later, on Friday, I finished work and drove back to my uncle's. I fed them all, changed my clothes, and let Kitty outside on the leash. About an hour later, I hear scratching at the back door. I know what that means.

I walked to the back door, and I see this:

I iz Spiderman.

Just chillin'. He does this every so often. I have no idea why. I then must go outside and pry him off the door.

Before I can do that, I look down and see Milly, on her hind legs, with her front paws on the door, staring up at Kitty. Great. I can't get him off the screen with her there, or he'll panic.

I leaned down to pick up Milly. I put my hands on her, and she turned psychotic. She unleashed an unknown vicious side of her. Her normal calm demeanor was gone. Her loving, playful personality vanished, and out came a vicious, maniacal beast. She attached herself to my arm, claws sunken into my skin, slicing me with her hind legs while simultaneously biting me with razor sharp fangs. This was the end result:

Again, the picture does no justice to the actual damage. I filled two entire paper towels with blood from this attack, and my right hand and left index finger were swollen for days. The only silver lining was that it happened Friday evening, and I didn't have to teach or sign over the weekend, because I wouldn't have been able to. Everything hurt to the touch. I couldn't pick up my bag. Showering took twice as long. What a pain in the ass cats are.

Appropriately, this showed up on my Facebook wall yesterday:

So true. Five minutes later, Milly was acting like my best friend and wanted to cuddle up to me. Temperamental jerks. What the hell is wrong with cats?

Conclusion: This is why dogs are a trillion times better and always will be. 

Scars

Writing prompt from Mama Kat's.


I found another fun little writing prompt exercise through InkPaperPen. Click the link above to check it out. Today: "Tell us about that scar."


Oh, so many to choose from.


As I have stated before, I am a klutz. This has therefore resulted in many, many scars across my body. Today, I will tell you about the two times my klutziness has resulted in stitches: once in my face, and once in my finger.


The first occurred when I was about eight years old. At that time, my mother, older brother, and I lived in a tiny apartment in my grandmother's house with a small kitchen, a smaller living room, and an even smaller bathroom. A minuscule bedroom was built for my brother and I to share, while my mom used the living room as hers. 


One afternoon, my brother and I decided to play catch in the backyard. Things were going fine, the natural back-and-forth progression that involves a simple game of catch. Suddenly, my brother threw the ball quite a bit further than I could reach, so I ran for it. This, consequently, made me look up at the hurdling ball in the sky rather than where my feet were landing. My grandmother had apparently just cut down a tree, because that's when I tripped over a stump and landed face-first in a giant pile of sticks, cutting and puncturing my face and neck. With blood streaming down my face and neck, staining my shirt, I screamed and cried, and cried and screamed. Mom snatched a towel to hold to my crimson wounds, most worried about my neck, and we were off to the hospital. The end result? Two stitches in my chin, leaving no visible scar, and bandaids for the rest of the cuts.


The second sewing incident to my body happened my senior year of high school, during second period art class. I can't describe the project very well, but we were required to draw a self-portrait, and cut it out onto linoleum using a tool something like an Exact-o Knife. My first attempt at cutting, I held the project at the top, and slowly but firmly slid the knife across the board. Of course, immediately after, I slipped, and sliced my left index finger open, which instantaneously gushed blood onto the table and my project. I ran to the counter next to my table for paper towels, dripping blood on the floor on the way there. Pressing the towels to my finger did nothing to stop it, and so I asked a friend to tell our teacher that I was running to the nurse.


At the nurse's office, she did her best to patch up the wound, but it wouldn't stop bleeding and suggested I go to the hospital to get stitches. Despite my protesting, she called my mom at home, who of course didn't answer. She called the next two people on my emergency contact list, who of course didn't answer either. Finally the last person on the list, my stepfather's mother, answered and came to pick me up. She drove me home, and it turns out my mom didn't answer simply because she was outside with the dogs and didn't hear the phone ring. 


We drove to the hospital, as regular doctor's offices don't handle stitches. The doctor numbed my finger, sewed up two or three stitches, wrapped up my finger, and we were done. Most kids would have been happy to get out of school for a day, but I was pissed that I had to miss the entire rest of my day due to a stupid cut on my finger. I couldn't just slap a bandaid on it and be done with it?! Jeez.


How did you get some of your scars?