feral beast (and not in a good way)

The namesake is a cat.  And two nights ago, he bit me on the face.  Not a playful bite.

It was more of a fuckyouIwon’tdowhatyoutellme bite.

He was angry.

I was angry.

And while I am an advocate for peaceful petparenting, a part of me wanted to beat his furry little body.  I didn’t, and that’s because I’m not a beater.  Or a hitter.  I bite, but that wasn’t the time – he’d already bloodied my face.

So now I dislike alfredopotato.  I’m strongly considering sending this feral kitten outside to play with the coyotes.

Manparts loves him, so I guess that’s his call.

And there’s this voice in my head that says, “This isn’t a work of art here, anymore.  This is an angry cat that you might feel like ignoring for the rest of his life.”  The psychology of that is… wild.



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