Love, Jimmie

So it turns out that Murphy is a brawler. 

My sweet little annoying ten pound cat got outside last week and it wasn’t long before I started to hear some truly terrible noises coming from the street.  It was a cross between a cat being smushed by the tire of a car and children screeching at each other in a sing-song “somebody’s gonna get it” refrain.  With heart threatening to pound right out of my throat, I threw open the front door and bolted out my walkway, barefoot and wearing decidedly inappropriate pajamas, only to find my affectionate beloved orange puffball beating the absolute snot out of another cat. 

You may have many reasons to think me naïve or call me a bit of a ditz, but give me credit for having sense enough to not break up a cat fight, especially seeing as how skinny little Murphy was blown up like a watermelon, tail twitching with his ears laid back flat.

I scurried back into the house to wait it out while Seamus paced nervously by the front door and eventually settled in his new safe place under the lighted Christmas tree.  Within the hour, Murphy yowled at the front door to be let in, and in he stalked, looking a little more broad through the shoulders and with a bit of swagger. 

Later, he sat at my feet as I “powdered my nose” (something he does without fail nearly every single time I have to go) and looked up at me with sleepy and peaceful eyes.  He was completely serene.  I noticed he had a small chunk missing from his ear and as I raked my fingers through his fur, I dislodged pieces of cat claw.  Then all throughout the night he would leave the bed where he was cuddled up next to me to visit the toilet and splash around in there, maybe washing himself of his bad behavior? Whatever his reasons, I woke up to water all over the seat and floor.

I’ll say it again – I suppose getting a red-headed cat and giving him an Irish name and plenty of opportunity to drink (from the toilet) was a bad idea if I wanted a docile lazy aloof cat. That’ll teach me.