And a few unwanted facial hairs, but at sixty next month, that can’t be helped.
This is the showiest damage, though the most serious and painful part involved the quartet of bite punctures on the opposite side of my jaw. They are in a condition consistent with a resolving abscess (the term used by the hand surgeon who treated my first cat bite over twenty years ago). They may or may not drain but I’m packing them, when I have time, with a revolting soup of warm Irish breakfast tea heavily spiked with Epsom Salt.
Important information:
–The blood all came out of the shirt.
–Due to the antibiotics, which have otherwise proved innocuous so far, I can now fart a descending tonic triad, and possibly the Marseillaise. The change in tone quality and melodic precision is significant.
–He actually got me inside my left nostril, something I didn’t realize until I washed my face with oil and salt.
A person of a spiritual bent was briefly in my house last night, and offered to channel Torvald’s point of view. “I’m sorry I hurt my Mom,” she reported. “It was really big and I was scared but I coulda taken him! I coulda taken him!”
Sounds about right.
That’s Fergie’s ear on the left, by the way — the paragon of cats, giving me aid and comfort. And trying to type on my keyboIOURD.
I think I’ll go back to my bowl of tea now, and make up a story about Schlager fencing in my student days.
Sixteen Tons 
Holy fucking shit. I can’t even think of a better thing to say.
Best I have is that I showed your pic to himself and told the story, and he agreed that no one can blame Torvald.
And I think the scars will heal. If not, you will just be more visually awesome.
And you look great for nearly sixty, weird partial-eyeball glimpse notwithstanding.
And I am also just over a long course of antibiotics… *gasp*
Tunes? Can you do tunes?
Not exactly. I go more toward an oceanic sort of sound. Usually requiring an immediate trip to the potty to make sure I didn’t also create art in my drawers.
thpfft
I wish it sounded like thpfft…
Um…holy crap. I will never complain about my cats again. Like, ever.
But I would miss hearing you talk about their venial schemes.
This is a rare moment that I will seize to put in a good word on behalf of dogs.
A cat gone berserk is way worse than a berserk dog. If I had to choose between a dog bite and a cat bite, I’d go for the dog bite every time. (I might think twice if the dog is a pit bull.) ((No offense intended to pit bulls.))
I would also choose a moderate dog bite over a serious cat scratch, nine times out of ten. A dog is highly unlikely to bite you in the eye, or even the face. Dogs can almost always be depended to follow the rules and go for an arm or leg.
And cats have all these nasty viruses in their mouth. A dog’s mouth, by comparison, is nearly as clean as an operating room. Just sayin’.
Only, if you are out running along the bike path, a cat will not pursue you and threaten you. A cat will not bite you because you touched its owner. A cat will not chase the mailman into your yard where he collides with you and you collide with the bins and everyone goes down (and may get bitten). A cat will not just walk up to you, or behind you, and bite you for NO REASON WHATEVER when you are not even approaching or making eye contact with the cat. And dogs have done all these things to me — plus, they stink, and they make noise, and they’re stupid. I’ll stick with the cats.
To add to this, I’ve never heard of someone being killed by a cat.
Not outright. It is entirely possible that in an era before antibiotics, someone with a dicey immune system could get septicemia from a bite and die. I hope to be fair on this. All other things being equal, though — well if a dog had gone for my arm, say I’d be out of work for a bit, whereas on Saturday, shocked and sleepless as I was, I worked my full schedule because, as I pointed out to a few people who asked why I wasn’t taking the day off, “I don’t use my face.”
And I know that some people love dogs as well as cats — good friends of mine included — I just can’t feel any attraction to being in the same space with one.
Edgar Allen Poe is believed to have died of lockjaw or rabies as a result of a cat bite. (He had several cats, and that was before rabies vaccinations.) If I knew I’d die that way, I’d probably write depressing, morbid poetry ‘stead of blogging.
Many people must have died in similar circumstances over the centuries. When you think about it, it’s a wonder that people lived in close proximity to dogs and cats before modern medicine. But there was good reason. Both dogs and cats earned their place close to humans (though usually outdoors). Cats killed rats and mice, which was a major good deed. And dogs were useful in tracking and hunting wild animals during the hunting-and-gathering period, and in herding animals once the wandering tribes settled down to farming. Of course they’re natural watchdogs, since they like to bark so much.
Dogs can be trained to do any number of useful things, such as leading blind people. Have you ever tried to train a cat? (Actually, I believe I did once train a cat to “Stay” when I went out the door, rather than dashing out to freedom, which was her preference.) I have a soft place in my heart for both canines and felines.
It’s a wonder that people managed any kinds of animals before modern medicine. Pigs are mean. Horses throw you. And people get tularemia from dressing infected rabbits.
I know dogs are useful… I just never meet those dogs. Most of the ones I do meet, I dislike for the same reason I loathe children. They seem to want your attention all the time, they make noise and messes, they can’t be still; there’s no peace any place where a dog or a child is present, and I think on some level they both enjoy being pains in the ass. Like it’s their calling in life.
Mine are more of the RUN AWAY!!! than ATTACK! variety.
We are still trying to figure Torvald out. He looks like there is this Norwegian Forest in his gene pool (making him sort of a feline Hagar the Horrible), or Maine Coon which is kinda the same thing, only boy does he hate it when it’s colder than about 55 F outside, so the Engineer thinks he may be the rare Virginia Coon, intolerant of cold temperatures. Yesterday I thumb-tongued that and said “Virginia Goon,” and I think we have it. He is a goon. But, when not excited, curiously charming.