In my race against time, Murphy’s Law struck again. Red lights were flashing and cars ahead had stopped. A train! Well, why not? My evening could use a little more suspense. The last car of what must have been one of the longest trains on record finally made it through the crossing and I arrived at the clinic, the only patient in sight. I was given a tetanus shot and a prescription for an anti-biotic. My hand was cleaned and wrapped in a pressure bandage—purple (rather attractive, actually)—and I set out to find an all-night pharmacy.
On my way home from the pharmacy some guy in a pick-up nearly creamed my car when he made a wide left turn from the median into the center lane where I was driving. “You idiot!” I grumbled. Will I be glad when this night is over, I thought.
But wait! It ain’t over yet! As I opened the door to the house I wondered if the place would be in shambles. You see, I had left without knowing what had become of the intruder, whether he had left or ended up in a free-for-all with the dog. All was quiet, however. No shredded furniture or broken glass. Pictures still on the walls.
My dog came down the stairs to greet me and I set about cleaning up all the blood. The place looked like a crime scene! After about 15 minutes I looked around one last time. Suddenly I thought about Sylvester. Did he ever get out? I pulled back the sofa and—Oh, no!—the little beast was still here! I went upstairs, followed by the dog. The cat (mine) stopped half-way up on the landing. She knew something was up. She didn’t come when I called (she’s a cat, after all) so, as a ruse, I started getting ready for bed. Eventually she wandered in and I shut the door and returned to deal with Sylvester. I opened the back door and, arming myself with a broom, prepared to do battle.
Cat 1, Me 0
It took some prodding but Sylvester did emerge, none too happy, from behind the sofa and made a bee-line toward the open door, ran right past it and jumped up on the buffet again, clambered up the tapestry—again!—and laid down on the hanging rod—again! I swatted his bum with the broom a few times but that only pissed him off. He bared his teeth—Oh, dear!—and hissed. “Get out of my house!” I yelled. He jumped to the floor at the foot of the door and then did a vertical onto the window shade, climbed to the top of the door and came to roost, teetering there crosswise like some indecisive mugwump.*
“What are you—stupid?” I yelled. “Get out of my house!” I gave him one more whack on his backside; he gave me one more snarly hiss, and then leaped into the air, landed on the threshold, and disappeared across the driveway. I shut and locked the door, saying to myself, “I’m glad that’s finally over.”
Oh, but wait! It still ain’t over. Checking the directions on the prescription bottle I noticed two warning labels. The first said, “MAY CAUSE DIARRHEA. IF PERSISTS OR BECOMES SEVERE, NOTIFY DR OR RPH.” The second, not to be outdone by the first, said, “DIARRHEA MAY OCCUR WEEKS TO MONTHS AFTER TAKING DRUG. CALL DR OR RPH.” Diarrhea? For weeks to months??!!!
How much grief do I have to take from one home-invading feline? I can only hope that what that demonic black-and-white hairball experienced in my house scared the ever livin’ crap out of him!
WES © 2011 The Wit’s End Scribbler
*Mugwump–This term has several definitions but my father always used it for a bird (or person) who sits on a fence, his mug on one side and his wump on the other.