“Blame Canada! Blame Canada! It seems that everything’s gone wrong since Canada came along. Blame Canada! Blame Canada!” – South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut
God Shave the Queen.
In honor of National It’s Somebody Else’s Fault Day (the first Friday the 13th of the year, and no, I’m not making this up, it’s an actual holiday), I provide the following true story that happened to me last week:
It started with the cat.
Actually, our cat. The Family Wilder has a cat. Sort of. This particular cat started out, optimistically, as an inside cat. When The Mrs. and Pugsley “found” it at the pet store and brought it home, I understood. They were sad that we were catless. Without cat. Feline free.
We had previously had two cats, Cisco® and Frisco, but over time they disappeared when adventures that they were attempting went tragically wrong off screen. The cats went out, and never came back. That’s why I understood that they wanted another one, especially since Cisco© and Frisco were great cats.
Cisco® and Frisco were nice, polite, clean, and calm. The Boy had named Cisco™ after our wifi router, which at least is better than naming the cat Ford Taurus®. Frisco got his name because it rhymed with Cisco™. I was okay with that. Why was I okay with naming cats with names that sounded so much alike? Because they’re cats, and I have learned that with long hours or intense focus and training, you can train a cat to do exactly what it was going to do anyway.
You could tell – he was always having hissy fits.
This new cat, Rory, was a mess from the start. Instead of a bundle of fur and purr as a kitten, it was instead a bundle of hate and spite and peeing in the hall closet. If Satan had a cat, it would be afraid of Rory. So, we hung garlic ‘round the doors and crucifixes ‘round the window sashes and banished Rory to being an outside cat.
My family, however, has the weak will of the type that doesn’t allow people to tell Madonna that what talent she had left her just like Sean Penn did, and at the same time back in the 1940’s or whenever. The Mrs. especially lets Rory in from time to time. Either that or Rory has developed a ninja-like ability to flow through the shadows and silently through the doorway when we go in and out. I don’t believe it’s a ninja since essentially it’s just a big orange rat.
The Mrs. buys Rory soft cat food, yet won’t allow me to buy him a trebuchet.
One morning, I was on a vacation day, and was alone in the house.
Or so I thought.
Inside there was also . . . Rory. I saw it dart through the kitchen. Rory avoids me because whenever I see it, I throw it out. This is exactly what I decided to do right then and there when I saw it – throw it out. I chased it, and it ran downstairs. Since the kitchen has baby gates to keep The Mrs. barking-minions inside, I closed the baby gates to better corral Rory if it had the bad judgement to try and return upstairs.
After a few minutes Rory came back upstairs from the basement. It ran into the dining room. I got it to run out from under the dining table. It was spooked, and was just a furry flash across the kitchen tile away from me. Now, the first time Rory ran through the kitchen, the baby gate was open. Not this time.
The maximum speed of a housecat is approximately thirty miles per hour. This was the speed at which Rory ran head first into the bars of the now-closed baby gate.
The thunk of metal and skull attempting to occupy the same space was exactly as you’d expect. If you’ve ever seen a cartoon cat run directly into a dirigible mooring tower owned by the Kaiser and then sit with stars orbiting around its head, well, this was exactly that. Rory sat there, dazed, just long enough to tease me into thinking that I could catch him.
Okay, I couldn’t really see the stars, but I knew they were there.
Realizing the large bald man was still chasing him, Rory looked back at me through the haze of concussion and then jumped over the baby gate.
Or, it would have jumped over the baby gate had the stars not been obscuring its cat vision. As Rory lept in the cat-addled state it found itself in, it didn’t jump quite high enough to clear the baby gate, and as a result, Rory’s back left leg got stuck in the bars of the baby gate.
If you’ve never seen a disoriented cat stuck half over a baby gate, well, you haven’t lived. I’ll give you a hint – they’re rarely happy cats. I tried to extract Rory from his predicament, despite having read what Mark Twain wrote about exactly this situation:
Okay, it was really Mark. But he didn’t look this good in leather pants.
Trying to free a near-feral and likely demonic cat summoned from another dimension where Cthulhu slumbers until the stars are right for its terrible return is necessary. Especially if said demonic cat has a hip that is stuck on the side of the baby gate opposite of the demonic cat head.
You may not realize it, but angry cats can be pointy even if you are holding on to them by the scruff of their neck. For some reason, cats don’t like having a concussion and then wandering into a cat version of a torture device and then being lifted by their neck skin by the human that chased them into the concussion in the first place.
Go figure.
Did you realize that a cat can move its front leg just like Michael Phelps swimming through a bathtub filled with mayonnaise? It can. And did you know, that in addition to the four claws on the paw, that cats have a fifth one, sort of like a thumb a just behind the other four?
They do.
And as a cat swims that claw flail-ingly into the air trying to get free, that it can reach all the way back and connect to the hand holding it by the scruff of the neck?
When that claw entered the exact center of the back of my hand, it was connected to a cat.
The cat seemed to be bothered even more that, in addition to having a concussion and a nearly dislocated hip that it found its right paw paralyzed, because its claw was firmly stuck deep in the back of my hand. What did the cat focus on? Freeing the claw that was firmly stuck in the back of my hand. Rory jerked his leg back and forth, but found that it the claw was still firm stuck in the leathery sheath that is my skin. Inside the skin, the point of the claw sliced back and forth against all the internal bits, especially that internal tube that moves the blood into (or out of, I don’t have them labeled) my hand.
He wore paw-jamas to bed.
I reached with my free hand and pulled the claw out of my flesh. After freeing the claw I realized immediately that the claw was the only thing that had kept the blood on the inside of my body. Freed of the stopper, immediately the rich, dark blood started gushing like Dracula’s Super-Soaker® at summer camp. I took three quick steps to the sink, and turned on the faucet. There I was confronted with a dilemma. In one hand, I had a cat that was behaving like a jackhammer attached to a cactus. In the other? The water from the faucet was washing the amazingly large amount of blood away from my hand. Whenever I pulled my hand away from the water? Rivers of blood formed. But I still had a cat attempting to imitate John Travolta being electrocuted in the other hand. I was one hand short.
Without really thinking, I grabbed with the cat hand (as opposed to the blood hand) and grabbed at the paper towels. Of course, they didn’t rip but instead the whole roll spun away on the tile, leaving me with a carpet of paper towel connected to the bunched up, blood soaked paper towel that I was holding to the back of my hand . . . with my cat hand. Thankfully, the combination of paper towel and cat soaked up enough blood so that the path to the back door didn’t look like young Jack the Ripper’s path on the playground slide.
I really nailed woodshop in junior high. I really liked the teacher, Coach Sevenfingers.
At the back door, I used my bloody hand to open the door, and threw Rory out with my paper towel hand. I then slammed the door.
There was a sickening thud as the door attempted to close and then bounced back.
Oh, crap. I had slammed the door, but I had slammed it on the cat. I looked down, expecting to see an angry cat that was now paralyzed because I had inadvertently crushed his spine with the door.
No.
It was an oven mitt. Even despite the blood, I was relieved to see it was an oven mitt and not the cat.
Somehow, in grabbing the paper towel to stop my house from looking like Hannibal Lecter’s kitchen, I had accidentally grabbed an oven mitt along with the paper towel, and partially threw the mitt out of the house when I attempted to give the cat an orbital velocity out of the house that Elon Musk would be proud of.
I looked down at my wrecked hand.
Amazingly, there was only one, tiny hole in the back of the hand after it stopped bleeding. But the flesh on the back was swelling like Johnny Depp’s ego as I watched. I got some more paper towel, soaked it in hydrogen peroxide, and elevated the hand and applied pressure so it didn’t swell to the size of Robert Downey, Junior’s ego. I even (briefly) considered emailing my certified medical adviser, Aesop (LINK). Instead, I remembered that this was (more or less) exactly the place where people got intravenous thingies put into their hand, so it would probably heal.
A week later, it’s still tender.
In honor of National It’s Somebody Else’s Fault Day, I blame Rory. Your mileage may vary.
And I’m sticking to that story, just like a cat claw in the back of a hand.
Great story…I needed a good laugh. Thanks for that John.
Wait till the second order effects appear. Cat Scratch Fever. Had it. Lived it. The perfect blend of emphysema, brain aneurysm, and low blood sugar. Lasts for at least a month and can really stretch your entertainment dollar.
Well, the first time that I got I was just 10 years old. I got it from some kitty next door. I went to see the doctor and he gave me the cure.
I think I’ve got it some more!
My pleasure! And my hand is healing. From The Mrs.: “So that’s why the oven mitt was over by the door.”
Cats can be carried by the tail. You need to add centrifugal force to the arraignment.
This also aids proper separation between the two parties at release.
Trumpetet failed to add one vital caveat…ensure there is adequate space *BEFORE* adding centrifugal force!
Indeed!
I gets complicated holding the hands together. Plus? I was stuck with the scruff.
John – one of your best columns ever. I laughed until I cried, thanks, I needed that!
Thank you! Yeah, The Boy read it tonight and just giggled.
My ADHD did not permit me to follow the entire story line here, but do I detect that you had a recent bloody run-in with a housecat? This naturally begs the eternal question that we vehement non-cat-owners have in regard to the utter madness of keeping a hopelessly semi-feral creature of no practical use as a valued member of your household.
Why cats?
And why, for the love of Pete, do so many [bitter, middle-aged, single, Chardonnay-mainlining, male-bashing] women host MULTIPLE cats?
They are useless in a crisis. They, and they alone, decide when, where and how much ‘loving’ will be offered or tolerated, your needs and wants be damned. They tend to be high-maintenance, finicky at mealtime, utterly inscrutable. And everyone who walks in knows immediately that you own one from the scent of your place, despite their reputation for being so ‘clean’. Oh, and they look silly in hats.
Hey, wait a minute. Did I just describe the ‘fair sex’? Fancy that.
Depends on the cat, really. Mostly these buggers teach us (as family does) how to love who is often, objectively, rather unlikeable. How to have mercy. And cats are easier than humans.
Because, whatever we mete out, we’re likely to get.
Again, over a dozen cats in my life have been wonderful. It’s. Just. This. One.
Okay, in my life I’ve been associated with more than a dozen felines. Most have been awesome. It’s. Just. This. One.
Cats are useless in a crisis, UNLESS you throw them at your enemy. They are pointy when you do that.
We’ve owned good cats and cats from hell. We did find the way to get them to either behave, or to avoid us entirely.
Use spray bottles filled with water to douse them when they demonstrate that feral behavior. GENERALLY, it stops it.
However, we had one cat very slow to catch on. For him, my husband slung him into the shower, running on cold, and shut the doors (note: this will NOT work with shower curtains).
After about 4-5 minutes of soaking, the cat was out of fight.
Ha! Not this one. I generally like cats, and most have been really good. This one? Not a bad cat. Just evil.
“There I was confronted with a dilemma. In one hand, I had a cat that was behaving like a jackhammer attached to a cactus. In the other? The water from the faucet was washing the amazingly large amount of blood away from my hand. Whenever I pulled my hand away from the water? Rivers of blood formed. But I still had a cat attempting to imitate John Travolta being electrocuted in the other hand.”
And there it was where I lost it and had a giggling fit. Not laughing AT you, laughing WITH you.
We have a pair of house cats now. Used to be a trio until about a month ago, had to put down my favorite, a Burmese who was very friendly to all of us. 11 years old, feline cancer. I and the others really miss him.
The youngest may be related to Rory. Whenever I snacked at the bar, she would climb my legs and jump onto thigh. Had no time to prepare or stop, she was up in a flash. I walked around in shorts with legs covered with cat claw marks. Looked like I was hit with a load of bird shot. Kitten claws are like bitty little razors.
I hope you find the code to getting a more cooperative cat.
Well, we’ve had him for a Long Time now. We keep getting him shots, and The Mrs. feeds him soft cat food.
He is what he is. Again, I’ve had wonderful cats. This one is . . . well . . . not.
Cat lovers will be appalled by your post. Sane people will find the humor, and feel relieved they don’t have a cat.
Cat lovers will laugh themselves silly. We”ve all had That Cat (TM)
I’d be happier without THIS cat. The back of my hand still (really) is tender.
Idiots everywhere: “Cats are clean. They bury their poop.”
Aesop: “So, they have cat poop on their claws. Which they lick to get them cleaner. So they also have cat poop on their fangs. Which they don’t brush, ever. So now, see if you can guess while all cat bites are dirty bites, and antibiotics are strongly suggested, because bites and scratches come with an injection of cat feces at no extra charge.”
No points for guessing how many times I’ve given this exact same lecture in the E.R.
And BTW, for the wound you described, Betadine and Bactine are your friends. Hydrogen peroxide, not so much.
The only thing to use hydrogen peroxide for is to get the blood out of clothes and the carpet.
Pour, bubble up, wipe the bloody foam away with paper towels. Repeat until it stops foaming.
This trick is very handy for rapid blood removal if the cops may be arriving shortly.
I’ve heard.
For cats, all you need for their removal is a loaded super soaker.
Don’t ask me how I know this, but it’s true.
Also, when thwacked in the hindquarters with a pellet from a Daisy Red Ryder, they make the exact same noise as the cat being beaten on the wall in the “Bring out your dead” scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
Same caveats as the above factoid apply.
And I like cats.
Some of them, anyway.
I picked the hydrogen peroxide mainly to get the paper towel antiseptic. I do have Betadine, but didn’t think to go there since the blood went immediately the right way in amazing amounts.
It’s still here. The Boy was cuddling it yesterday. They have a thing.
Dude, that was as funny as the old Giving The Cat A Pill story that been around forever.
Thank you! As I mentioned, The Boy was giggling the whole time he read it, because he knew it was true . . . .
Great story. Thanks for the laugh.
You’re welcome! This was fun to write. Especially since I was on vacation the next day so I could spend as long as I wanted on it.
Cats? Not a fan. Unfortunately, The Missus sees things differently, so we have two felines. The hygienic reasons Aesop described above are the reasons I feel the same way about countertops as I do about farts: you can’t trust ’em to be clean. No matter how much we “correct” the cats, I still come around the corner to the kitchen and find them on the countertops, usually frozen in surprise at my sudden appearance, and wearing shocked expressions that can only be translated as “Wha– You’re home early!”
Also, one of the cats jumped on the kitchen counter this morning and bit open a package of stew meat defrosting in the sink. Then he lifted it and dropped it on the floor, in order to enjoy it more fully.
So my question is this: Which is better, .22LR or .45ACP?
Such little bundles of joy.
.22LR. Or shotgun? Birdshot should do it.
Yeah. This.
Dogs? Ours know what’s off limits, and at least have the courtesy to look guilty when they’re caught.
There is such a thing as a good cat. A man’s cat. A cat among cats.
Here is a link to some of the stories about the seeing eye cat.
https://www.ar15.com/forums/general/-/5-645493/?
Ha! I thought Ghost Ship wasn’t *that* bad. Buy yeah, I wouldn’t have paid for it.
Related: I have a camera monopod I wanted to take into an event. “Can’t take that in.”
“But it’s a cane…”
In the “cane” and I went.
I’ll have to share the story about taking our semi-feral cat to the vet…for the only time. Took 3 attempts and 4 of us.
A wet wool blanket. Lead weights. A pond.