Listen up Sports Fans. I wasn't going to write a blog today. Had zero intentions of doing so. But fate stepped in--- in the form of unadulterated feline malice.
My friend James BBMed me up and he's like, "Let's go to Pets, Inc". I pretty much nevah evah turn down an invitation to go to Pets, Inc. So he scooped me up and off we went.
All was well with the world when we arrived. We saw "Ray Ray," the totally baller dachsund mix with the totally UNballer-ish name. We chilled with Abby, who defied all laws of Pug physics with how fat her little sausage body was.
Then we went to the cat room.
Our first sign that the cat room was a bad idea was the stench. You know, that lovely combination odor of feces, urine, cat sick, and kitten breath? We should've turned back right then and there.
As soon as we shut the door behind us, James was accosted by a deceivingly adorable black cat with white paws. The kind of cat you would name Socks or Boots, if you were the kind of cat-namer that was unoriginal and boring.
(I really have no room to talk. I once left a cat nameless while I contemplated monikers for a good 2 weeks, and finally settled on "Whiskers." But this is my blog. Don't name your cat Boots. I'm going to call this cat "Satan Cat.")
Satan Cat then turned his attention to me. He scampered over, jumped up on his 2 back feet like a dog, and acted like he wanted to be picked up. So what did I do? I picked him up, like your typical everyday Noob would.
The next thing I knew, Satan Cat's ears were flat to his head and I could feel his entire body go rigid.
I was absolutely terrified. And Satan Cat knew it. In fact I think he was basking triumphantly in my terror.
....And then I was attacked.
That little manipulative, scheming bastard started out as this:
Puss in Boots. "pick me up unsuspecting human! i can haz bites of your flesh?"
Once in position in my arms, Satan Cat promptly morphed into something more reminiscent of Church from Pet Sematary than Puss in Boots:
Anyway, Satan Cat bit the shit out of my arm. It broke the skin. There was blood. We quickly fled the cat room and left Pets, Inc.
However, as I've mentioned before, I am irrational and somewhat neurotic. We hadn't been in the car 5 minutes when I began to wonder things. Like whether Satan Cat's little fangs had transmitted feline leukemia (yes I convinced myself I could contract feline leukemia), or whether or not I would be foaming at the mouth later.
I called Pets, Inc. to reassure myself that these things would not be happening to me later on tonight because of the brutal attack I endured. This is roughly how the conversation went down with Crystal at the Pets, Inc. desk:
Me: So I was there just a few minutes ago, and one of your demon-possessed "cats", a.k.a. Satan's little helpers, bit me and broke the skin. I'm just kind of wondering if I should be worried about any diseases.
Crystal: Um, no, I don't think so. Wait, do you know which cat it was?
Me: (starting to develop high anxiety over my impending Rabies) Well I don't remember exactly. But I can describe him to you. He was small-ish, black, and had stupid little white "boots."
Crystal: Um, can you hold?
*I am on hold for approximately 10 minutes*
Crystal: Do you know what color his collar was?
Me: No. No I do not. I'm sorry that I wasn't paying attention to the color of his accessories while he was VIOLATING the begeezus out of my arm with his fangs.
Et cetera, et cetera. My lingering questions were many: Why can't homegirl just tell me I'm safe on the disease-front right away? Why does she only "think" I'm alright? And why the EFF does it matter which cat it was? Shouldn't they all be disease-free?!
Crystal got my name and number, and told me that they'd be calling back to get some more information so they could file a report with DHEC. Hold the phone! All I wanted was for someone to tell me I was absolutely NOT GOING TO GET RABIES for Pete's sake.
Instead, I'm having to remember the specifics of this little devil feline and talk to this idiotic Pets, Inc. employee 4 different times. All the while, all I'm doing is envisioning my funeral, where some pour soul/family member will have to say something like....
"Yeah, she got bit by a cat.....and got Rabies...... and croaked......from a CAT BITE..."
Meanwhile, every single one of my friends who showed up to mourn me would be stifling laughter and shaking their heads at my ridiculous fate, or at least I should hope they would be, and for good reason.
And Suz and Steve will be rolling in the dough from one spectacular lawsuit. I'm gonna go nurse my wounds and try to comfort my inner hypochondriac now.
I waited till the end to post the pictures of my battle wounds, lest you scoff at me or tell me I'm "overreacting" or some other nonsense like that.
And just FYI, a cat bite hurts worse than a cat scratch. I'm just sayin.