It’s all fun and games until someone gets a cat.
My love-hate relationship with members of the feline race is well-known in these parts.
Don’t get me wrong, I do love animals. But I have a simple rule about pets, and it’s the same I have for people — I stop loving them when they try to kill me.
And even then, I still show mercy.
I’m currently staying in Paris with two cats. One old and lovable, who throws up a lot. And the second, young and precocious (and in heat), who has a thing for jumping up on your shoulders, unannounced, when she’s not screaming her lungs out at 4am in search of a mate.
But what particularly caught my eye with the story below, about the people who had to call 911 to rescue them from their cat that had trapped them in their bedroom, was that the same thing happened to me.
No I didn’t call 911 when my nephew’s demon-cat decided I was never to leave my mom’s bathroom again, but I did call upon friends on Facebook and Twitter, who suggested I was being silly, and told me to simply walk on by, she’d be fine.
That’s when she ripped into my leg and drew blood.
So I’m sympathetic to the women in the story below. Hell hath no fury like a cat who doesn’t like Mondays.
The reporting in the video is pretty hysterical.
PS It’s a holiday here in France, and I’m busy cleaning the apartment, preparing to move somewhere else. So this may or may not be my last post today. Enjoy.