My kittens are wonderful. Despite the fact that I have two scars on my left fore-arm that are indelibly etched into my tender, ivory flesh. Despite the fact that I have a scratch beneath my left eye that’s swelled so badly that I think I might have cat scratch fever. (Seriously. Ted Nugent’s people are supposed to get in touch with my people about a benefit concert.)
When I first got the kittens, I never feared physical injury. They were cute and cuddley and, well, kitten-y. But as the months have worn on and I’ve taken them to the vet, the duo has become increasingly crabby for no good reason. For instance, the scratch under my eye was delivered with incredible sneakiness. Rupert has started this thing where he wants to sleep under the covers with me, so a few nights ago I lifted the bedding to allow him access and then promptly passed out. It wasn’t until the following morning after I’d finished my shower and was applying my make-up that I saw the nasty scratch just below my eyelid. Let me tell you, no amount of concealer will hide that sort of injury, what with the swelling and the pus and such.
My water gun stopped working a couple of weeks ago, so I no longer have a weapon against the idle-but-inappropriate pursuits of the kittens. That whole Steve Miller impression thing worked for a couple of days, but it’s proven fruitless in the last couple of days. I found an old, empty bottle of OdoBan under the sink and filled it with water, but the effects of streaming water on the healthy coat of confident cats works only a few times. Lately, I’ve taken to my (non-existent) martial arts training, and have employed an ear-splitting “hi-yah!” each time the cats enter into forbidden territory.