Angrier than a caught cat

Have you ever heard the saying, “madder than a wet hen?” Well, I’m changing it. The saying is now, “angrier than a caught cat.”

I went to my parents’ place for the weekend a few weeks back. While I was there, I petted some cats. I started with the tame ones, since they blink at us like they are really nice cats whenever one of us walks by.

Once those were petted, I decided to try to tame some of the other ones. There were lots of wild kittens to choose from. There are quite a few adult cats, too, if I was just brave enough to grab them. That is what happens when the resident cat tamer (me) moves out.

I tried to catch the tamest one out in the barn, which actually isn’t tame at all, it just really likes milk. I failed.

But, while my mom was distracted looking at that kitten, I grabbed it’s littermate. As soon as my hand was on it, I realized it was a pretty large kitten already.

That kitten didn’t like getting grabbed and was very scared. It screamed, hissed, spit and bit me through the leather welding gloves I was wearing. It didn’t break the skin, but it also wasn’t the most pleasant sensation. Angrier than a caught cat.

There stands my mom. “So, now what are you going to do with it?”

I said I was going to take it in the house to pet it for a while. My mom seemed dubious about that idea.

I barely made it out of the barn before the mother cat, Neville, was walking toward us looking very mad herself. My mom says, “It’s OK, Neville. She’s just looking at your baby.”

Neville growled. We closed the barn door that was between us and the angry mother cat, and booked it to the house.

The kitten was calico, so I decided Splat the Angry Cat would be an appropriate name. Splat sat on a pillow and blanket on my lap, in the air conditioning for three hours. She (we assume Splat is a she) ate expensive kitty treats and cat food we bought for the house cats. I even gave her an ear massage.

Even after three hours of that, Splat still looked angry and like she was dooming on us all. Neville also holds a grudge and still hasn’t forgiven us for touching her baby, even though we didn’t hurt it and fed it. I realized I would probably never be able to catch Splat again when I returned her to the barn.

I venture to say I was correct, because the next weekend I saw her with her littermates and Neville, walking across the yard. I opened the door and said, “Splat! I missed you!” All the kittens ran and hid behind a tree.

I watched through the window until they came out of their hiding place. It took quite a while. Neville still looks mad at me. I guess it was a very traumatizing experience.