Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Radical Felinism in America

Last night, I walked into my bathroom and closed the door. (Don't worry, it's not a sick story.) The unmistakable sound of a crying cat suddenly came caterwauling out from behind the bathtub. Pretty soon, the kitty came out and resumed bemoaning his predicament: trapped between the human he hates the most and the only way out of prison. I don't get much chance to pet and scratch him, so before I released the fuzzball, I reached down and petted him and scratched him (and called him George...) until he purred. That was a nice sound, because it reassured me that my fears of getting my forearms bitten and clawed were unfounded.

Teeth and fangs should have been the least of my worries. That cat could have been packing heat. I have no idea how I could have missed this story from last week, but some poor fellow was shot by his little kittycat. It's not like we weren't warned about the dangers of our feline friends, neighbors and permanent houseguests. Anyone who saw Shrek 2 knows what I mean.

When I get home tonight, I am checking the dark side of the bathtub for a weapons cache. That "poor little pussycat" act doesn't fool me anymore.

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