Last night my cat got his ass kicked by the neighborhood ruffian cat. I awoke to the caterwaul then dozed for a moment until I recognized Spoon’s voice in one-half of the racket.
I jumped out of bed and ran out the door to find Spoon and the Ruffian cat tumbling across the neighbor’s yard and onto the sidewalk. Thump. The cats separated, turned, slowly circled, raised their hackles a little more, cast wary glances at one another and at me. It was 4:00 am and I was standing on the sidewalk in my skivvies waving at a couple of hissing cats.
I ran back inside and pulled on a pair of pants. Spoon was on his own. I ran back out and waggled my bare foot at Ruffian cat with as much menace as I thought prudent. Ruffian cat, with his battered tomcat face and torn-up coat, with his mouthful of shredded catfur, recently Spoon’s catfur, catfur that he couldn’t quite spit out, though he tried, ack-thphth, ack-thphth, appeared at least as menacing as my bare foot. I outweighed him by 180 pounds, which fact carried the morning, and Ruffian cat scampered away into the shadows across the street.
Spoon was nowhere to be found, having used the the opportunity my menacing foot offered to rush off somewhere. And hide. (He turned up later, a little balder, but probably not much wiser.)