I had a cat. Her name was Zoe. Zoe loved crunchy cat food and long afternoons spent lounging in a sunny window and the feathers-on-the-end-of-a-stick toy. Most of all, she loved to be rubbed. Oh, how she loved to be rubbed and petted and patted… except when she didn’t. At those times, right in the middle of my enjoying stroking her soft, fluffy fur, she’d spring into action like a ninja and attack the crap out of my unsuspecting hand, clenching me like a bear trap in claws fully extracted from both paws and batting the hell out of my arm with her hind feet. POW-POW-POW-POW-POW! My freaking arm would be shredded like so much bloody grated cheese.
And when she’d come bumping up against my leg an hour later, I’d react like the proverbial beaten spouse, timidly reaching out and stroking her chin. She’d purr. I’d flinch… then I’d relax. I’d scratch behind her ears. She’d purr more loudly. I’d calm. I’d rub her back, her chest, her belly-
I have scars.
I saw this video, and laughed and laughed and laughed and cried a little bit.
BONUS: The blazer.