The Missus is still out there, somewhere in the backwoods of Missouri, fulfilling her self appointed role as caretaker of all who are sick or injured. Meanwhile, back here at the cat ranch, I valiantly struggle to keep the place in working order, cats fed, dog watered, and litter boxes cleaned. I hate to admit this, but I have sunk to a new low of self respect; I now feed the cats before I put the coffee on. It was just easier that way...and safer.
As any cat owner knows, when a feline wants your attention, they make sudden left turns directly into your path of movement. It's a cat thing. I saw the same behavior with the big cats in Africa. A lion or cheetah runs beside the prey, trips it up, then bites it on the neck, and holds on, thus choking off the air supply. House cats are no different. All they lack is the physical size to clamp around your jugular, the intent however, is the same.
What with the frigid temps of last night, all four of the man eaters stayed in the house last night. This is not a good scenario. For one thing, I cannot get a good night's sleep knowing that fangs of death are prowling around in the darkness. What's that? Close the door you say? Oh, foolish, foolish person. Won't work. Why, because somewhere between one and two a.m you will be awakened by the sound of claws scratching the paint off the bedroom door, demanding entry.
Then there's Brat Cat, A.K.A., the problem child. The other cats are, for the most part, laid back. They sleep, they eat, and they use the littler box. Brat stands out from the pride. Brat attacks her own kind, anytime, any place, any time of night. Mostly it's a playful attack but there are times when fur flies and guttural growls rumble through the abode. It's a game she likes to play called Survival of the Fittest.
Last night; 3 a.m. I hear a scratching on the door. Not my bedroom door but the door leading to the garage and the dog. It was obvious, at least to me, that Brat had bigger game in mind. What was kind of cool about it was that I discovered that I could throw a pillow from my bed, never having to get up, through the bedroom door, into the hall, and ker-plunk, smack the Brat Cat, an action unheard of if the Missus were here.
Give me time. I'm learning how to deal with this.