"Open the door, peon, or I'll fuck up your dreams."
Hmmm. That feels misty. How odd.
Pssssss pssss
That definitely feels wet, like a spray bottle...
PSSSSSS
What is that awful smell...and...why is my face wet?
PSS--
WHY IS THE CAT'S ASS ON MY FACE?...
OH DEAR GOD, THE CAT IS PISSING ON MY FACE! FUUUUUUUUUUUU---
I launched out of my bed and was on my feet faster than Elizabeth Montgomery on "Bewitched" could blink, wink, or do that strange nose waggle she was so famous for.
--UUUUCK!
My chest heaved and I choked through the asphyxiating stench of that which was presently dripping from my face. Cat urine is most admirable in its potency. The noxious fumes of amonia are enough to render a gag out of the manliest of men and, in my case, the badassedliest (Yes, it's a word...No, don't bother researching it...No--it-- well, you're not going to find it in any dictionary other than the Dictionary of Ruthlessisms) of women.
Two o'clock in the morning, pajamas ruffled, hair a mess, face sheening with cat piss, I stood there stupidly, gaping at Raja, my family's cat, in disbelief. She remained seated, back awkwardly hunched, ass firmly pressed into my pillow, peering pointedly over her shoulder at me as she continued to finish the deed she had so audaciously started. I'm not a violent person, but images of her being thrown through the window momentarily flashed through my mind before I abruptly scooped her up and gently tossed her out the front door.
I suppose it was partially my fault. That night I had repeatedly ignored her urgent meows in my ear and the cold wet-nosed nudges to my face, favoring sleep over responding to her needs. Raja has trained us to let her in and out of the house at will. Though we've put one in the basement of my parents' house, she does not use a litter box. In her estimation, the world is her litter box and we are to open the door to let her out into her domain at her will, even if that will is executed at 2am.
She is a royal bitch, but she possesses this uncanny ability to bewitch all of us into believing she's the most magnificent creature to ever grace our presence. I've never seen anyone or anything reduce my father--my no-nonsense, stoic, rigid, masculine father--to a driveling, baby-talking feline fan quite like Raja does. She has everyone in the house wrapped around her de-clawed little paw-finger and I shamefully admit that even I am not invincible to her black magic charms...
- What's that sound I hear at 1am? Oh, Raja's scratching on the screened window to be let in? Be there in a jiffy, Your Highness!
- This water is not to your liking? Allow me to refresh the--Oh, yes, if that's what you prefer, go ahead and knock that glass of water over and drink out of the puddle while I sweep up the shards of glass from the kitchen floor.
- Royal cats don't like toddlers now? Toddlers are so teetery anyway. Quick! Everyone! Toddlers are no longer fashionable. Please leave them at the door.
Like any benevolent ruler, she occasionally descends from her lofty throne to engage in play time with her subjects and, even more occasionally, flop dramatically on her back, gracing those present with an adorable look from between her paws, and allowing one person the divine opportunity of running their fingers through the massive bur-twined tufts of dread-locked fur on her belly. Careful; pet too long and she'll nip at your fingers to keep you in line. Yet, the whole lot of us gather around, ooo'ing and aaaah'ing like a bunch of giant oafs. She is our family's first "real" pet, which makes her, in our collective estimation, the most captivating creature in the entire world. She is very aware of our ignorance and frequently takes advantage.
Her supreme reign extends to the entire block and neighboring streets. Neighborhood cats shrink back into their homes when Raja is outside. In fact, I'm quite positive I saw one cat bite itself as an act of self-flagellation for not exiting the area quickly enough. Entire colonies of moles have been exterminated from my parents' front yard, rodent by squirming rodent at a time, all at the clawless paws of Raja The Regal. She charitably leaves their bloody, quivering carcasses next to our shoes in a manner that suggests we are to consider them gifts, but I suspect she can't be bothered to eat something as unsavory as a common mouse.
She's so royally unbending that it took 3 operations to successfully remove ALL of her front claws as she had rebelliously retracted them so deeply before surgery that the vets didn't "get" all of them. And while I whole-heartedly do not support nor endorse the de-clawing of a cat (my own cats still have theirs), I shudder to think what would become of a few of the neighborhood cats, should Raja have had full use of her cutlery. One neighborhood cat was sent to the animal hospital more than once, due to complications from battle wounds inflicted by Her Clawless Majesty.
After overcoming the initial shock of the golden shower my cat had just given me, I gathered my wits, took a very long real shower that exhausted nearly a whole bar of soap, changed the bedsheets, and--at last-- finally snuggled back under the covers...
"MEW." scratch scratch scratch "MEW." scratch scratch scratch
For fifteen minutes I successfully ignored her pawing at the screen window downstairs, a heavy chip on my shoulder.
But just as I was drifting off into dreamland, my senses were suddenly attacked rapid-fire by images of cat asses, phantom fur tickles on my face, the faint smell of amonia. Feline chuckles rang in my ears. Raja was like Freddy Kreuger, slipping into my dreams, twisting them into a horrific nightmare. Again, I launched out of the bed, rousing myself to wakefulness, thankful that I wasn't actually experiencing a golden shower encore, but breathing no easier, nonetheless. For fear that she might work the same spell on my sleep, I ran downstairs and opened the door to let her back inside.
She slept on my chest until morning. I lied there subserviently, cat napping....
One eye open.
