|Roy Horn and his cash cow, Montecore, in better days.|
Besides bleeding, I was stunned. The attack had come out of nowhere. We weren't even playing; I had simply picked Lurch up and moved him out of my spot in bed so I could get in, and I guess he was sick of feeling like a second-class citizen and let me know it in no uncertain terms.
Despite their cute names, Cupcake, Fluffy, Kitty, Panda, Missy, Mittens, Muffin, Pumpkin, Tigger, Snowflake and Oreo are not just our playthings. According to Wikipedia, all cats are descendants of the African wildcat, and some remain wilder than others: "Several intermediate stages occur between domestic pet and pedigree cats on one hand and those entirely wild animals on the other. The semi-feral cat, a mostly outdoor cat, is not owned by any one individual, but is generally friendly to people and may be fed by several households."
Added to the wild ancestry of our fluffy kitties is the barbaric practice, indulged in by most humans, of eating former pets. This is something they surely notice. For example, when we have chicken for dinner, are my cats aware that the very same chicken was having a grand old time clucking around our neighbor's yard just last week? Or that those adorable cows I stop to photograph down the road are actually next year's hamburgers? Maybe Lurch, a semi-feral cat if I ever saw one, finally put two and two together and vented his inner rage on me.
This morning my arm is perfectly fine, although an unsightly scab bears testament to last night's violence. From now on I'm locking the bathroom door when I take a shower.