Scratch That One

I know better.  I am a veteran cat lover and owner.  I even know it is ridiculous to say any human owns a cat because cats do what they want, and only hang with those privileged enough to make the cut.

But even with all my experience I fell into the trap set for me by Pudgy.  She was semi-stretched out on our bed, and had a fake “I’m sooooo sleepy” look on her face. Her yellow eyes were mere slits, and she looked like molasses on a cold day.  The white fur on her belly made small pulsing moves, and emitted softness energy waves.

“You must touch her belly,” my mind declared, even as my left hand pulled my right hand out of harms way.  Undaunted, my brain once again said, “Look how fluffy her belly is.  You must touch it. Besides, she’s so tired she will grunt at the most. Go. For. It.”

I watched her face as I slowly reached down and felt the warm silk. Immediately she curled around my hand like a velvet vise, and pummeled my skin with her back claws.  Several angry red welts rose on the back of my hand and blood dripped in payment for my lapse in judgment.

I extracted my hand and Pudgy went back to her slumber.  Her tail twitched one or two warning signals that she was not to be messed with now or in the future.  I went to the sink and washed my scratches with soap and water.

Life is so full of lessons, and Pudgy’s boundaries are no exception.  Bearing the marks of my weakness for cat bellies? It is the best part of my day.