My friends will
hardly believe it but this day my tail was viciously attacked by a whacking
great brute of a kitten named Morgan, or Baby Morgan as Mummy calls him. You
know, like Baby-face Nelson and countless others of that squad of vile cretins
bent on savagery.
We were in the chair
by the window, my tail and I, happily watching the world go by. Or, at least,
watching the breeze blow idly through the ivy leaves, cleverly turning them
upside down here and there, seemingly bent on a thorough inspection before
passing on to whatever activities it had planned down the road….
Where was I?
Oh, yes. It
matters not what we were doing but
rather what the scoundrel Morgan was up to: viz. making a mad dash from across
the room (completely unprovoked, mind you), sliding under the chair like he had
hit a homer, then flashing up all teeth and claws to grab my poor, innocent,
fluffy (did I mention beautiful?) tail.
At first we pretended
not to notice, as we gentle-cats-and-tails do. Not wishing to make a scene, my
tail merely flicked at the beast in annoyance, hoping he would go haunt someone
else. But after 3 or 4 sessions of grabbing, clawing and, ultimately, biting, I
was compelled to intervene on behalf of my down trodden tail.
Being pretty big, not
to mention being seen from an ant’s eye view, has its advantages. The next time
the Miniature Marauder made his appearance in a final effort to nab my tail and
presumably make off with it (he has a tail of his own, confound him; why doesn’t
he go and chew on it?), he came face to face with Gussie Grey, the Bold
Avenger! I lit into him like a windmill in a tornado and sent his fuzzy self
scurrying to Mummy, who said I was right to defend my tail. Somebody had to,
she said.
All is peaceful now
as I settle back into my evening routine of staring out the window, tail tucked
neatly beside me, all ready for a nap. What Morgan was thinking when he began
his fell deed I cannot say but he has learned a valuable lesson this day:
Don’t mess with a cat’s
tail!
