The victim of a heinous crime

It was the Monday night after a long weekend. I was just drifting into the kitchen to wash up when I heard an unearthly sound. It was like all of the banshees of Hades were having a conference in my back yard. I tore outside to see my poor little cat being attacked by the nasty black and white tomcat who harasses her every spring. In spite of numerous hose squirts over the past decade, this testosterone tom, this pussy pervert intent on getting his moggy rocks off, had the absolute gall to leap on my poor Grace and start hammering away. I discovered the hose was undone so did the only thing a true pussy lover can do, I ripped him off her, and he ripped into me. I screeched and let the nasty beast go, and he tore off into the dark, cattus totally interuptus. Grace staggered inside where I prepared to offer her rape counselling. Suddenly the pain set in. Blood dripped from both arms and hands, he had torn holes in my even where I had a sweatshirt on. I went into shock. My neighbour heard my cries for help and doused me in betadine. After ringing the 1800 medical help number (great invention) I was advised to get a Tetanus booster and anti biotics the next day.
Grace sat on the bed looking stressed. She has been speyed, and I think that like me, she would prefer a cuppa and a good book to the amorous attentions of an importunate male. She had no obvious wounds, just a nip out of her ear where lover boy probably considered was an erogenous zone for a cat and one which would serve as a super quick method of foreplay in the feline seduction manual of 2001, right after the chapter which discusses whether you woo her with a seafood dinner and a yowl at the moon first.
Now, all quips apart, I am known for my love of the cat. I am a total sucker. I ignore the fact that they eat birds and decimate wildlife, I know they do, I’ve occasionally walked on a dead rat on my floor, but so does the Highway Project from Coffs to Woolgoolga (not eating birds exactly, but decimating wildlife corridors)
My mother was an avid cat lover. My father hated them. He was in a house with a wife and four daughters who would offer undying love and affection for the cat while he sat in his chair waiting for his tea. He would give the poor thing a sneaky cuff or boot up the backside when he thought he wasn’t being observed. However, if God had said to love cats, then there would have been an altar for them under the Cross which hung over our fireplace. My poor old mum used to ring me in her dottage and tell me (with her false teeth out so I had to really listen hard) “My pussy has just come in and shes all wet…” she was referring of course to Violet, her ancient cat who was returning home after being out in the rain. “Pussy” probably is a word that has been changed from it’s original meaning. A result of post modernism I’d say. A bit like gay once meaning happy…
Yes, I am known for my love of cats. I have left one relationship because the offending male did not like my cat. I have had relationships which have lasted longer with cats than with some people. I know they are a aloof and imperious. They are selfish and self absorbed. Probably why I have such an affinity with them (just joking). I just love their shape, the texture of their fur, the perfect symmetry of their face and just their essential “mogginess”. I like dogs, but I love cats. Dogs bark and poo in unsuitable places. Both things annoy me. Cats at least have the dignity and grace to poo discretely, and in my neighbor’s garden, not mine…
Anyway, I am mending well, and knew that as I walked into work the day after my phone message told them “I’m not coming in because I got attacked by a cat”, would produce some riotous mirth – and I was not wrong.Lots of cat calls, meows and of course, being the calm, level headed, well balanced and good humored person that I am, I took it all in my stride. I’m not a woman to sit around feeling sorry for myself and saying “paw” me

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