You know, I really think I hit the jackpot with that scrawny wee under-the-shed beastie. He’s grown into a ten-pound monster at only six months old. Sure, he bites, but he’s only drawn blood by accident. When he leaps with fangs of doom out from dark corners to frighten stray feet into submission, he never uses his claws. Thoughtful of him, as well a promoting longevity.

Now that he’s large, I don’t worry too much about the dog getting too rough with him. It’s more of a concern that he will get too rough with the dog, actually.

Isn’t he pretty?

I went out to grill tonight, and those two cracked my shit right up with the fierceness. I had to get Seamus to sneak me out the camera to capture Jekyll beating up on poor Angus, who only wanted to chase his ball.

Dogs bites cat: fairly normal scenario.

Cat bites dog: not so much!

I throw the ball for the dog, and he has to detour around the terror to get it back to me.

Finally, he gives up, and just stares at the ball for a while, wondering if that damn cat is looking.

The cat is always looking. Perhaps the children can distract him? No such luck; they’re too busy laughing at him. Finally, the dog’s wore out, the cat’s wound up, and the burgers are done. I drag his frightfulness back into the house where the kids pop a laundry basket over the top of him and he turtles it around the kitchen like an evil clawed white vinyl tank. That cat’s a good sport; the kids torment the shit out of him and he just comes back for more. I tell the kids that if they tried that with my old cat, they’d have had their faces ripped off long ago, but they just giggle.

He does keep the mood light around here. As long as you don’t step on him following from in front in the middle of the night at least. Overall, I guess this cat-having thing is working out OK. As long as my landlady doesn’t find out, that is!