After a night of drunken drinking, I spent most of my Saturday morning praying for death, and promising myself my Saturday morning promise, (I will never drink again...if only this agony will end.....AAAAAUGH). As I was home alone, there wasn't much to do besides load up the DVD player with another fabulous episode of Family Guy, and try to ignore the sound of my eyelids scraping across my eyeballs every time I blinked. As I was slipping off into a nice little hangover sleep, I heard a noise. Sort of a barking....yowling...howling....yelling noise. I sat up, and was greeted with a pounding on the back door. The pounding and yelling continued as I fell out of bed and into a pair of pants, (are these even my pants? No time....) and ran to the back door.
What greeted my bloodshot eyes at said door was more horrific than I ever could have imagined. There was blood EVERYWHERE. My landlord was yelling something about a cat, and as far as I could tell he was bleeding from several points on his right hand. I soon realized that the blood now soaking my porch was not just his. His German Shepard was also bleeding (and semi-howling), with a deep slice across her nose. In addition to the landlord's yelling and the dog's whimpering I could hear spurts of deep growls and hissing, which seemed to be coming from above and below my scope of vision.
The landlord pointed up the stairs to his mother who had a towel over a wriggling hissing ball of fur, and yelled at me to get the cat. At this point I was having a hard time believing that a cat had done this to them. "What cat....what cat is that?", I ran toward the towel and was greeted by the tiniest cat of our clan, the new roommate's kitten, aptly named, Tiny. She was hissing and wheezing, and seemed to welcome my presence as I lifted her off of the steps. I cuddled her, as I ran into the house, and placed her on my bed. I checked her top to bottom for bite marks or blood, but found nothing. My heart was pounding as I returned to the porch to face my landlord's wrath.
He sort of yelled something about insurance and shots and working at the pound, (I'm still not sure what he was saying,) and headed for his car. "I'm going to the hospital. Find out if that animal has rabies." was the last thing I heard as his truck revved out of the garage.
Surprisingly, I forgot all about my hangover. My heart was still racing as I mopped up the blood on the porch, and called my roommate to find out, if indeed, the cat had rabies. Needless to say, she is rabies free, and seems unaffected by the whole affair. The landlord promised not to sue as long as we keep the cat inside, and I have now discovered the perfect cure for hangovers....
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