Wait. That's not right...
You may have heard (seen) me mention the Fondue Goddess before. I'm serious... she's a goddess... of fondue... her business card says so.
The Fondue Goddess has a cat. This cat is named Rocky. She calls him, "Handsome Kitty"... I call him evil.
One of the first times I met Rocky. I was doing what I do with cats. (Get your mind out of the gutter) I was petting him. Rocky, for some reason loves me. I pick him up, insta-purr. I make fun of him, he rubs on me... We're bros... we're brothers from another... species?
Rocky, it turns out is a tricksy hobbitses... He flopped over onto his belly, inviting me to scratch. Well... I have four cats in my home - Zoe, Trance, Meep and Lilly.
I know... I should order my crazy cat lady starter kit now.
Now, I will let you know this: I am not your standard, inexperienced cat owner. I have had cats all my life. I know that these are not the cuddly, cute sweethearts they want everyone to believe they are. In reality, owning a cat is a great deal like living with a bipolar schizophrenic who is in the midst of a hyper-manic episode and high on PCP. Add to this the fact that they have razor blades in their feet and needles in their face. Did I also mention that they have an enzyme in their saliva that is extremely painful to about 70% of all humans and cats mouths have so many bacteria in their mouths that a bite can become infected within 30 minutes? It's a bit like living with Lindsay Lohan... or the Jonas Brothers.
Needless to say, this isn't my first rodeo. Like most bipolar schizophrenic who is in the midst of a hyper-manic episode, they have different personalities.
I honestly wasn't thinking when I reached down to scratch his belly.
Both the Fondue Goddess and the Sisterface cried out as I reached for his furry undercarriage.
It was like one of those moments of realization in a bad action movie, right before the bomb goes off... Time slowed down as they called in unison...
It was too late. I had realized too late... it was a trap.
Like the X-men's Wolverine, his claws and teeth came out. (Sorry to interrupt the narrative, but the first time I wrote that sentence, I typed "his clause and teeth came out." Doesn't that just call up images of the cat snapping his fingers *I KNOW CATS DON'T HAVE FINGERS* and another cat, a lawyer cat strolling in to present me with a cease and desist order???)
With a metallic clang, the strap snapped shut. Rocky was gone and all I was left with was a bloody stump.
Or maybe that was the toxic enzyme in his slobber... I'm too afraid to find out though, so we may never know.