May. 22nd, 2007

ladysprite: (Default)
I've known for quite some time that my cats are out to kill me. All cats are out to kill folks, that's just part of the joy and delight of owning cats - sweet, purring lapwarmers that, every once in a while, make an attempt on your life just to keep you on your toes and because they harbor a secret curiosity about the taste of human flesh.

I've gotten used to watching my step. I know better than to wander around the house carrying objects big enough to keep me from seeing my feet, and my reflexes are amazing - I can carry a full mug of tea, stop myself halfway through a step when a cat leaps to position themselves under my foot midstride, and avoid both falling and pouring nearly-boiling liquid on myself. Apparently, I've gotten too dextrous for their comfort, and they've taken to other methods.

Unfortunately, my cats are too smart for their own good, and too aware of my overactive startle reflex. So, while I was in the middle of tidying the house today, Percy (my fat old grey cat) waited until I had bent down in the hall near the living room doorway, then snuck up behind me and stepped on the 'Play All Messages' button on our answering machine. Voices blared, I jumped, my head slammed into the doorjamb hard enough for me to see stars, and I swear to all the Powers that Be that I heard my cat laugh.

I avoided becoming cat food, thankfully, but I've got a knot on my forehead the size of a walnut in spite of ice, advil, and some highly therapeutic cursing. It should be interesting trying to explain this at work tomorrow.....

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