DON’T ARM THE CATS. Please. I beg you. I know some of y’all think we should force our teachers to be peace officers (do they get additional security salary?), and probably next will be arming our toddlers. But here’s my supposition. If cats would murder each other for no apparent reason–without guns–what would happen if we armed the everybody and their dogs?
I bring this up, because the latest thing around Chez Frazier is that Marlowe Badger Kitty–aka the Troublemaker is getting his comeuppance.
Marlowe is beautiful (and I love him) but he is also a certifiable, Watch List jerk. Just ask Ziggy the White Wizard Kitty.
Atticus Ninja Kitty (who is only a troublemaker with snakes, gophers and full-grown deer. And some people if he deems them unfit to step foot on the property) has decided to thug-up on Marlowe while he’s sleeping and punch him in the face.
At the initial face-punch, Marlowe leapt up, did a slobbering mid-air spin (a formidable feat considering his size) did his little “What the hell?” purr-meow, shocked, appalled and no longer asleep. I could almost hear Atti say, “That was for the White Wizard, you dirty rotten face-slasher. Nobody picks on old men!”
The boxing matches started about a week ago.
Everything seemed normal. Or as normal as it gets around here.
Marlowe was nestled into his little cat bed, tucked his beautiful, black and white duchess-faced nose into one of his enormous, fluffy white paws, dreaming his kitty dreams.
I know this, because that’s where I left him to go write in the living room. It was Bodhi the Wonder Dog Border Collie who alerted me that danger was afoot. To be more accurate, danger was a-pussy-foot.
I followed Bodhi back into the bedroom, saying, “What’s up Bodhi Doghi?”
And I saw what could potentially be an Active Shooter situation if either cat had been armed.
I told Bodhi to stand down. For the moment. “Yeah, buddy I don’t know what they’re doing,” I told him. “We’re all stressed out. Break it up if claws came out, brotherly neck-bites become bloody. Or if one of them pulls a pistol.”
Atti swaggered right up to his brother (no sneaking, butt-wiggling or pouncing) and punched his brother-cat eight in the kisser.
When I say Atti *punched*, it’s because no claws were out, and Atti’s little paw was actually balled up in a little furry fist and just let Marlowe have it. All of it. Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee.
Other the initial yelp (yes, it was a yelp) of surprise, there was no hissing or spitting–no Game of Thrones Red Wedding nonsense going on. Just two brothers, sitting on their haunches, smacking each other about the head and neck.
Now it’s a regular show, kind of like Turner Classic Movies, nobody knows the schedule, and I’m not sure I even know the rules.
Atti casually strolls by, makes note if his brother is sleeping, and then just full-on clocks him.
I get it, Atti. Wouldn’t be so satisfying to just haul off and punch somebody in the puss? And you know I mean puss like a face–not the D.Strump kind.
I’m making a list of people for which I’d dearly love to punch in the face. Not strangers, but folks I genuinely (and rightfully in my opinion) just need a reality check.
We’re learning a lot from the Florida kids if we’re paying attention. I know we’re all exhausted. And I don’t plan on punching anybody in the face.
Probably . . .
Because now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure there are folks who think I need a good sock in the snoot, too.