Most of which are not appropriate for a family friendly blog. But most often I just call him Turd.
My brother is moving. Not just down the street, he’s moving all the way to Florida. While he juggles the job change, locates a place to live and packs his belongings I’m keeping Turd and his brother Loki. It is impossible to get anything done with Turd around. He’s not a normal cat. I think he’s brain damaged. It’s really the only explanation I can come up with.
The night of the hay delivery for instance. I was beat. All I wanted was to sit down and relax for a few minutes in my favorite chair. I set my glass of wine down on the second bookshelf nearby, making sure not to put it on the top just in case Turd showed up since he likes to knock things over. Then I sat down in my comfortable chair with my ‘dinner’, a plastic cup of fruit. As I settled in Loverboy Loki arrived to curl up in my lap, that being his only desire on earth, to be adored. As I lifted the plastic cup and spoon into the air to allow him room, Turd rounded the corner of the hallway and immediately noticed a little orange bug in the corner of the ceiling directly behind me. It happened so fast I can hardly describe it, but I’m sure there was terror in my eyes as I realized my mistake. He came flying through (almost literally) like a bat out of Hell across the room, up my legs, the fruit and juice landing squarely on my head and chest, the spoon disappearing to who knows where, while he leapt from the chair to the bookshelf in an attempt to reach the bug. Unfortunately he had underestimated the distance from the chair to the top shelf so instead of landing on top, he grappled with his font legs while his back legs kicked over the wine glass among other things I had safely stowed away. It was red wine. Sticky red wine. And there were books. Lots of books. And bloodshed - all of the commotion caused Loki to freak out and insert his claws into the back of my hand, his signature move. I stood there stunned, fruit juice dripping from my hair, chunks of fruit stuck to my glasses, splatters of wine and blood across my shirt as my son shouted up the stairs, “Are you okay?”
“No,” I replied. “Not exactly.”
A week later I am still cleaning up wine splatter but I finally found the spoon under my sewing table.
There will be no holiday decorations around here this year.