Hi, my name is Zoe. I live with my friend, Emily, in a house just north of Boston.
One day I was tooling around the Internet and came across a post by Emily of all people. It was such drivel.
Because she did not tell the whole truth. Let me tell you my take on the events she wrote about. I was relaxing on the back of my recliner. Of course, Emily thinks it is her recliner. She was about ready to leave for work, but got distracted by something on TV. I was sitting there on the chair, being cool as can be, and she was standing by the chair, cool as a jalapeno. Her hand lay invitingly close to my head so I started to lick it. (People, I know ya’all think this means we are “kissing” you. I hate to break it to you, but the truth is we are simply grooming you. We want you to be as pristine as we are.)
I thought I was doing something nice, treating her to the same good grooming I give myself. But did she appreciate it? No! She got a grooming and I got this: “Stop, Zoe. Be a good girl.” Of course I did what any “good” cat would do. I ignored her, and went on with my grooming activities, adding some gentle nips on the skin between her fingers.
“Zoe! No!” said Emily, a bit too forcefully for my taste.
Mistake number one.
What is her problem, anyway? It is a known fact that cats do not like being yelled at or told what to do. But I did stop. Just long enough to land a quick love bite on her hand and then fall back. It was just a little warning, like the nausea one might get just before a migraine sets in. So, sure—it was a more aggressive nip than the previous ones, but it certainly was not an “attack” . . . I mean, it was quick and I didn’t even break her skin! I just needed to remind her that she was not the boss of me.
But, she suddenly grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and held me down.
Mistake number two.
I really hate being grabbed and held down like that, wouldn’t you? It’s humiliating. I sat still because, really, what choice did I have? When she thought I’d learned my lesson, she let go of my neck and turned to walk away.
Mistake number three.
Like a demon, my head shot toward her arm and my teeth found the hand that had held me down. I held on fast, but don’t freak out; I know she wrote that I “attacked” her, but once again I did not even break her skin. I could have but I didn’t. I held on this time, though, and she did not dare pull away. Smart move, girlfriend! Wonder how she liked being held still?
I let her go after a little bit. Examining her hand, she said I must have been a snake in another life. I don’t know about that. I just know that she better never, ever grab me by the scruff again because I never, ever want to be forced to show her tough love again.
And that, my friends, is the real story. The whole story! Not Emily’s made-up version of events. An “attack”? Hardly! Now you know three things: I am just a poor, put-upon pussycat, Emily is a drama queen, and love really does bite.