Warm Today.

We're sitting on squashy sofas in a cafe, and I am directly in a sunbeam, so it is nearly impossible to stay awake. I persevere because I am a dedicated blogger, and I have come to rely on your approval. I've been working on the following post for a while now, trying to make it funny, but I've finally come to terms with the fact that it's just not funny. It's f*cking horrifying. Anyway.

A while ago, I accompanied one of my dear friends to the humane society. She was looking for a kitty - something calm and low-key, like a furry, purring throw pillow with a litter box. Her godfather, a former cat owner, met us at the shelter to offer his professional opinion on her selection.

Though there were cats aplenty to choose from - some practically tap dancing with cuteness and enthusiasm - we all fell for an enormous black cat called Snoopy. He was the kitty equivalent of a joint, made to be held and passed around, mellow as you please. We were smitten, and my friend decided to take Snoopy home.

Before she signed the papers, one of the helpful volunteers suggested that we spend some time in the "bonding room," which turned out to be a broom closet full of hay, litter, and really acrid smells. As soon as we entered, Snoopy began to behave oddly. He hunkered low to the ground, prowling and sniffing like he knew that some bad sh*t had gone down in the bonding room.

We let him adjust, and then my friend tried pet him. Snoopy hissed. We gave him more time. His behavior didn't change, so we decided that we'd all had enough of the bonding room. The Godfather approached Snoopy slowly, let the cat sniff him, then carefully picked him up. All seemed well until, without so much as a meow, Snoopy went f*cking apeshit on The Godfather's hand, mauling it and PUNCTURING AN ARTERY in the process. Shocking amounts of blood spurted from The Godfather's hand in great scarlet arcs, spattering the floor and the trashcans and the cheap laminate cabinets. By the time I dragged the helpful volunteer into room, the f*cking cat was quietly lapping blood in a corner, and The Godfather's hand was the size of a football.

The now-terrified volunteer shepherded the cat from the room with a mop, and we decided that a trip to the ER was necessary in case the torn artery required surgery. Now, at best, my friend and I are lackluster in emergency situations. At worst, we're fragile, useless, whimpering ninnies. So once we arrived at the ER, we called her mother (who is also The Godfather's best friend), and implored her to hurry to the hospital and bring some scotch. Trust me, the only way to endure a traumatic event and an afternoon in the ER is with scotch, cheese bagels, and potato chips. A little tip from me to you.




Thankfully, The Heroic Godfather To Whom My Friend Is Eternally Indebted did not require surgery, but the cat did manage to spray his shoes during the debacle, so he was not merely in the ER on a Saturday afternoon; he was in the ER on a Saturday afternoon smelling of cat piss. Also, we discovered that the cat had neither been properly quarantined nor given a rabies shot, so The Heroic Godfather To Whom My Friend Is Eternally Indebted was required to endure a full round of rabies immunoglobulin, which, as everyone knows, is terribly unf*ckingfun.




So, that's that. The moral of the story? Be wary of strange cats, avoid bonding rooms and always - always - travel with scotch.