I have a gash on my palm two inches long and deep enough to have me considering stitches. I can’t close my hand without serious pain but whenever anyone asks me about it, I brush it off as nothing. Thank god they can’t see the other numerous slashes and scrapes I now possess- hidden conveniently under my long sleeved turtleneck. God... I hurt everywhere.
...but it wasn’t Norman’s fault. Not really. It’s mine.
Now before I start sounding like those dog owners who rationalize the attacking of children by their dogs *or* those mothers who rationalize the attacking of dogs by their children, I should clarify. See... whatha’happened was:
Over the weekend, Norm and I went up north to visit my mother and spend ‘Thanksgiving’ with my family. My mother has two dogs- a big one and a little one. The little one weighs less than Norman; the big one weighs more than me. She also has my old cat Seifer, who after moving back from Peoria to mom’s with me decided he was never moving out of another house again. (This was WAY back in the day when I was a battleaxe on sparkmatch- and *that* has no relevance whatsoever)
Normally the animals all manage to get along. Somewhat. I should mention Norm is kind of a bully... kinda. But it’s not his fault he was raised wrong, right? He doesn’t like the big dog but chases and swats at the other two until they flee, hissing and/or yipping all the way. The introduction of my sister’s teeny dog set the stage for the mutilation of my person that followed shortly after that particular... erm, introduction. Apparently the ‘up north’ animals didn’t find Norman’s antics as amusing as I did and finally decided to do something about it. Yeah... when it was 3 against 1. Sissies.
Upon viewing the faces of the people in the living room- you’d never know a battle of epic proportions was taking place at their feet. Their disinterest was ridiculous. If we had been a cartoon, the animals would have been one of those grey swirling dust clouds- occasionally you’d see a paw or a tail poke out of it- making noises that cannot even be described and are probably better forgotten. Against my better judgment, I decided to rescue... someone. I pushed up my sleeves, turned my head and closed my eyes, prepared myself for searing pain, and thrust my arms into the swirling cloud.
I grabbed two fistsful of fur and pulled and to my complete and utter surprise- came out with mine. Completely unscathed. Staring into my eyes, upside down (I had one hand wrapped around his lower abdomen and one supporting his weight on his shoulder) Norman seemed appreciative of his rescue. My ‘YATTA’ of victory turned out to be preemptive however as my mother, in the kitchen - completely oblivious to the enfolding drama in the living room- decided *now* would be the perfect time to let the big dog in the house.
*Note. When a Siberian husky/wolf dog is excitedly released into a closed environment, one should never be holding a cat upside down by their hip and shoulder in said environment. NEVER.
I didn’t have the vantage to see how everything went down. But I do know 3 things.
#1. The huge gash in my hand and the various scratches up and down my arm were Norman’s way of saying, ‘Yo. Put me down please.’
#2. After dropping him, the big dog knocked me down and I fell on top of Norm. She (thedog) then proceeded to try and dig through me to get to him. This is where the worst of the long gashes on my back came from.
#3. The short gashes on the torso were the cat’s way of paying me back for falling on him.
After it was all over (overturned child and 2 broken lamps) everybody blamed me. My mom ordered me and Norm to my room. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to be told to go to your room by your mother at age 27? And *no*, I didn’t even hesitate as I picked myself up off the floor and limped to my old room.
I’m no fool.
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