aka “The Twisted Ankle Tale”:
We had just gotten home from grocery shopping, which I hate hate hate to do (why can’t the food just, like, appear?) I was on my way to the soup drawer* to put away, well, soup, and Zoey, our ginormous female cat, got under my feet. I decided to gracefully sidestep her, thus sparing both of us any trauma whatsoever…it didn’t go like that. I stepped full on her (I still don’t know which part of her) and somehow came down wrong on my foot. Cue flashing lights and little cartoon birds. My husband, C, came to my aid but I was worried I’d broken the cat’s leg or something, so told him to go look after her.
She was cowering behind a chair in the kitchen, then came out growling and spitting and hissing. She ran into the living room and attacked our scaredy cat, Jade, who held her own surprisingly well. It was all National Geographic in there; claws and fangs and spiked black fur everywhere. C ran in there and pulled them apart. He was rewarded with nasty cuts all up his arms.
Then cat piss! Everywhere! Delightful! and both cats ran upstairs.
So Zoey is behind the chair in my office, making horrific noises, and I’m trying to lure her out as I’m bawling because I’m in pain and thinking I’ve caused her serious harm, and Jade is trying to come in the room and C is dripping blood everywhere.
Finally, after wet food and treats, Zoey comes out. She’s skittish all night, but otherwise fine. The cuts on C’s arms are not so bad once clean. Jade is her normal doofy self and seems relatively unfazed. I’m left with an ankle that throbs with my pulse and a huge goose-egg on my shin where a can of soup clonked me a good one.
Moral of the story: I am not a ballerina. And I need to watch where the fuck I’m going sometimes.
*I’m not sure how the soup drawer happened. It’s just a deep drawer full of cans of soup.