Making Molehills out of Mountains

On Wednesday my cat Piper attacked me. I've been writing about this in my head for days, and the story has gone from funny to dramatic to this final version, which is just short: It was a beautiful evening, the windows were wide open, and when Piper began to fight with a large white cat that appeared on the other side of the screen, I got in the middle of it. Piper turned her impulse to fight on me, and I came out of it with a bite on my left hand, a bite on my right forearm, and a few scratches on both wrists. When Eric got home from work, we went to an urgent care clinic, where they gave me a tetanus shot and a prescription for antibiotics that make me nauseous.

There are people out there whose next errand would have been to the vet for a little euthanasia, but we are confident that in that moment, Piper was concerned only with defending herself. She was blinded by instinct and adrenaline, and I was in her path. That's all. So far, this theory has been pretty much borne out. She was easily spooked for a couple of days, especially by noises and movement at the living room window, and by me. At this point, though, she seems to have lost even most of her residual memories of our fight, and the cuddling this morning has been pretty much like old times.

But my brain is bigger than hers, and I remember it all clearly. No matter how often I remind myself that she had always been capable of doing what she did, and the only difference now is that I know about it, I still can't quite trust her. I've never been afraid of any animal before, and I don't like it. So I'm trying to forget. My wounds were impressive, but there have not been, and will not be, any pictures of them. Beyond this post, I will not write about what happened. The only part of this I want to remember is that getting anywhere near an angry cat is a bad idea, no matter how many times you've picked that cat up and made her dance the mambo.