They crouch, unseen, concealed by couches and chairs and bed covers, their gaze riveted, never leaving your body.
They wait, taking all the time they need — though time to them is meaningless — with stealth and the patience of Mother Teresa, their fangs dripping in anticipation of the taste of your flesh.
They wait … wait … wait … then suddenly from the depths of secrecy and darkness they launch like heat-seeking missiles. You are their target.
You scream. You curse. You holler. Your nerve endings send pulsating signals of pain to your brain. You shake your limb vehemently to free it of the source.
Now you’re at war. Alas it’s a battle you’re assured to lose. Your sole defense is a pair of thick leather thigh-high steel-toed boots.*
*Not available at your local shoestore; special order only.
Or to move and leave behind the fanged monster from the dark.
You live with a kitten.
Let me preface with this: If EVER you read me uttering the words: “I think I’ll get a kitten,” you are to promptly direct me to this post. It may restore my sanity.
Attitcus is his name.
He’s not mine. He “belongs” — as much as any cat “belongs” to another — to the house owner whose room I’m renting. Daniel’s off living with his new bride.
Wisely so.
It’s incredible and scary what a pint-sized creature, here plotting his next attack, can do.
It’s criminal, really. Speaking of which, I’m unable to get a decent mugshot. He simply doesn’t stop his rampage through the house at the speed of light long enough.
Do not be fooled by his little limbs, his cute paws, his sweet nose or his soft fluffy face. God had to design them that way, otherwise these little devils cloaked in kittenish would never get adopted.
Like all kittens, Atticus is a runaway locomotive careening through the mountain pass like a hot knife through butter and leaving behind a swathe of destruction akin to Attila the Hun.
Like this morning. I arise to a house eerily quiet. That should’ve been my first clue. However, in my Not-a-Morning-Person fog, I’m not necessarily the brightest bulb in the room.
I step sleepily into the bathroom. The entire roll of toilet paper’s lying torn or shredded in a heap on the floor. And cat litter’s everywhere.
Litter. Remind me of that too if ever I’ve lost my mind into contemplating a kitten.
Second roll in a week he’s destroyed.
And I refuse to see good money go down the drain because of this little devil creature. From now on it’s kept up on a higher-up shelf. Inconvenient? Heck yeah. You baby-proof a house. You kitten-proof one too.
And the hell’s only just begun. Atticus is like only 10-12 weeks old.
I’m not fooled by his kittenish countenance, neither should you be.
In his rare moment of pause in his adrenalin fury, I’m able to capture the fast furball:
Trust me he’s NOT the Mr. Sane Innocent he appears to be — again, all part of his and God’s design to ensure kittens get homes.
Part of my mission here on Earth is to peer behind the veil and tell the truth and that includes dispelling the myth that kittens are cute and whisper purr purrr purrrrr purrr in your ear.
Sure they do. Then they slice it off with razor-sharp fangs.
You’re certainly free to cling to the myths. You’ll be the one to suffer their slings and shredded ankle flesh and the tracks up and down your arm that have friends, family and coworkers concerned about your new heroin habit.
Do not misunderstand. I love animals. I’d shoot someone in the leg who’s doing serious harm to one, then elsewhere if the offender didn’t get the message the first time.
And Atticus IS an animal, technically. But flesh is flesh and pain is pain and destruction is destruction no matter the size or so-called cuteness factor of the instigator.
In time, you’ll come to recognize and appreciate the truth about kittens, as exposed by me. I live with Atticus, the Devil Creature from the Gray Lagoon.
I’ve got the puncture wounds to prove it.
Barefoot Blogger 