In Disgrace

I went batsh_t and chased one of the houseguests up the stairs this morning, spitting and growling.  My mistress called the vet.  I overheard her talking while I was sulking and having private time in the cedar closet.  When I emerged I was very lovey and hiding my Attila the Hun on Steroids side.   I can't believe it myself how fierce and protective of my turf I've become.  The Vet said it was a territorial thing.

I don't know where the other cat it, but I can smell him in the living room.  As long as he's not in my face, everything is just fine.  As long as no one is in my face, which I am currently washing.  I find that vigorous grooming relaxes me.  It's what a cat does, after all, and  A CAT'S GOTTA DO WHAT A CAT'S GOTTA DO. If I could paint or knit or whatever, do anything except clawing, I would put that on every wall in the house.

I'm going upstairs for a snack and to watch the Red Sox, which is something else I always do.  I  sit on the rug and my mistress reaches down and pets me and all is well.

Anti-anxiety meds were mentioned and I don't want no pills.  Egad, my diabetes shots are bad enough.  I feel like I could demolish 40 chipmunks and take on a fox.  Well, maybe not.

Attila on Steroids, aka Thisbe