The Eyes Of Twyla: J'accuse
Blog intersects life. A few days ago, on a comment, I casually mentioned that that Twyla no longer resembled a graceful dancer as she did as a kitten when she was christened. With complete disregard for the all the rules of order for the universe, I dissed my cat. "Now she's 18 pounds and looks more like a groundhog," I proclaimed, for the whole damn internet to read.
That was a mistake. I shoulda known better.
In fact, I did. One of the first things you learn about cats is that it is okay to tease them a little, even flick their tails when they get sassy, put medicine in their cat food, take them for the dreaded ride in the car to the vet, vacuum when necessary, but never, ever, laugh at your cats. They always get even. Eat at Mom's, play poker with Doc, but never, ever, diss your cat.
I knew that.
Past revenges - like peeing on the carpet, I can still smell it, are not all that distant as memories that I couldn't have remembered them, if I had only stopped to think. They are fresh in my nostrils, if not my mind.
As Liz and I finished our Coconut Curry Chicken with Potatoes on Tuesday, I compounded my sin by repeating the offensive comparision. "Now she's 18 pounds and looks more like a groundhog," I say and Liz and I both chuckle as we wipe our lips with napkins. Liz, wise as she is, follows her laughter with a qualification, "Oh, she couldn't possibly weigh 18 pounds."
What a fool I am.
I shoulda let it go there, but as I looked at Twyla, a sleeping cat lying on the sofa, I come up with this brilliant idea. "Yes! She does weigh all of 18 pounds, " I screech to the heavens, draining the last drops of Juengling from my pint glass, "Here, let me show you - I'll weigh her."
In my mind, the plan was simple.
Stand on scale with Twyla, observe weight, put her down; Stand on scale solo, observe weight, calculate difference, and that's what Twyla weighs - probably 18 pounds.
The critical neglected step in this process was the pick-up.
As I attempted to slide my left hand beneath her, without waking her up, she immediately bolted. Her right dew claw caught the underside of my left arm as her left paw, all talons extended, cut deeply across my wrist. At the same time, she used her powerful hind legs to bolt into the air an easy three feet. The entire counterattack lasted mere milliseconds, but it took me a good hour to stop the bleeding. Ouch!
Never, ever, ridicule your cats.
6:24:17 PM 
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