We were getting ready to go to a Christmas party that one of my clients holds every year. I used to think of it as something of a penance and skipped it a couple of years, but the Engineer likes to bake, and I confess to a guilty pleasure in showing off his tortes and ganaches. This year’s was a Queen Mother’s Cake, a flourless job done with almond meal (suitable for wheat-allergics and Passover).
Knowing there would be a buffet, I did rack squats. My left leg still isn’t really all of that, so the result was that I passed into a coma for most of the afternoon and only wrestled myself awake in time to get dressed. It was inevitable that the Cox-And-Box of segregating my junior cats from the cantankerous and hostile senior pair would run into trouble.
“Did you put the young’uns away downstairs?” I asked, seeing the door to the top floor open.
“I thought you did,” said the Engineer.
Torvald the Mighty was up on the top step. Mr. Ferguson, his usual nemesis, was maintaining a defensive position on the duvet, but as we got up the stairs Nickel Catmium, twelve pounds of Bengal (Bengals is crazy, just FYI) shot out from under the bed and engaged Torvald in a hurtling duplex furball of ballistic combat. Fergie launched into action: Don’t you fuck with my girl friend!! The Engineer was hovering in several conflicting directions as the engagement proliferated. “Don’t get hurt! Dont get hurt!” I hollered desperately, memories of chomped hands and tetracycline dancing in my brain like toxic Christmas sugarplums, as I grabbed the shower spray, fired it up, and aimed it directly at a hissing, yowling feline affray in the middle of my bedroom.
Torvald exploded out of the mass and onto the staircase, bollixed by the unexpected cloudburst, and let the Engineer chivvy him down the steps.
The mopping up didn’t really take long. The bedroom floor hasn’t been this clean in months. Cats do help you keep house. Just ask them.