I don't get it!
You feed them, cloth them, love them, and spend your every waking moment worrying about their future, and what do they do?
Pfft! Take sides.
Daniel Jackson, the man, would have watched my six in any and all situations, but Danny Jackson, the almost one-and-a-half year-old, is happy bouncing on his diaper-padded butt, waving his arms and burbling away over my demise.
Yep, it had to happen. Isis – Danny's pain the mikta, ragdoll kitten – took particular offence to the angel on top of our Christmas tree. So while we both slept on, she plotted the angel's downfall.
I swear this cat could have got a job working Black-Ops for the government. How she managed to get up the tree, pluck the angel off, and get back down without disturbing so much as a bauble is beyond me. Then again, everything this cat does defies logic.
Anywhoo. Daniel and I get up to find the angel de-everythinged. Wings at one end of the living room, dress at the other. Her body, well, it was pretty well scattered all over the place, but Mikta must have lost interest in her by then because she was only mostly chewed on.
And here we are. Isis has adopted the pouncing unsupported position, ready to trounce the Christmas tree, and I'm the only thing saving it from an imminent feline de-nuding. Seems we got out of bed just before she enacted phase two of her cat-astrophe.
Isis is unhappy at my intervention and hisses her displeasure. I hiss back, imitating her, but not doing that whole raccoon tail thing she does. Though, if I had a tail you can bet your granddame's kitchen I'd be puffing it up bigger than she does.
Danny, meanwhile, thinks we're putting on this play just for his benefit, as he bounces happily on his butt, rooting for the wrong team. The cat knows this as well. In between exercising her considerable kitty vocabulary at me, she pauses to toss a sub-vocal "mrrrow" at Daniel. Ah… favortism!
We seem to be at an impasse until Isis goes vertical on me. Yep, like a Harrier Jump Jet, she literally takes off. Have you ever seen a cat do that? No? Try walking up behind one and scaring it. It's an unbelievable sight as your kitty springs up on all four paws, fur sticking out at the most incredible angles, leaping high enough to achieve orbit.
Not that Isis floating in space without a suit doesn't bring a smile to my face.
She's got the tactical advantage on me now because she's managed to gain enough height to land on one of the high shelves of my bookcase. And if you don't think she's not proud of herself, well… think the Cheshire cat. Yep, dratted animal is smiling at me.
"Coo!" Danny squeals, waggling a chubby finger at Isis, who has paused for a snack and is busy cleaning herself. Coo… which I've recently leaned is "cool" in Danny speak, is a word he rarely uses, and only when he's suitably impressed. Mikta offers him another guttural "mrrow" which vibrates down my spine and tickles my bowel, causing my butt to tense up. Have I mentioned how much I hate this cat?
Now what? I know what the little imp is going to do. Yes, sir-ee, she's going to wait until she thinks I'm not looking and go commando cat on the tree. Not going to happen.
"Da?"
Oh, now the kid wants me. "Daniel," I grind out, as he twists onto his side and gets to his feet, waddling over and waggling his fingers to be picked up.
I'm torn here because if the cat goes ballistic on the tree, I want to be able to arm my broom and knock her out mid-flight. Okay, I'll admit its not the most conventional method of modern warfare, but I kinda think firing my Beretta at her – while infusing me with immense pleasure – might prove difficult to explain away to the authorities. So while I let Daniel down slowly with a promise of ice-cream if he's a good by, I turn my carefully honed colonel senses back to the devil-incarnate.
Who isn't where I left her. Nuts!
A quick visual recon of the room draws me to the ill-fated Christmas tree which is suddenly listing to the right. Baubles are swaying haphazardly on their strings; branches are quivering and losing their tinsel, and worse of all, the musical Rudolph with its battery-powered glowing nose is about to take a header to the floor.
Somewhere amongst it all is that blasted pedigree pimpernel. I can see one claw twisted in gold tinsel, and the flash of a fang tells me Rudolph has probably glowed for the last time as his nose flies off his body and skitters across the floor.
Mikta's fan club is cheering happily behind me, but I'm ignoring him for the moment, as I hitch up my pants and dive on in after her. I've got one hand wrapped around the trunk of the tree while, and with my free hand, I'm rummaging through the hard plastic branches in hot pursuit of Scrooge Mc Kitten.
Meanwhile, Isis is navigating the branches like a pro, a train of tinsel clamped in her jaw. There is one problem here. The tinsel is wrapped around the tree, and it doesn't take a moment for her to break free of the branches with her treasure and bring the whole darn thing down behind her… me included.
Two hundred pounds of colonel and a full laden Christmas tree should be enough to slow her down, or so you'd think, but nope, she's not giving up her illegally obtained booty for anyone, and like a trooper, she's trying to drag us away.
Well, pfft… I didn't get my rank in Cheerio's box. As Isis fights like a feather weight in a heavy weight wrestling match, I gather up the line of tinsel and drag her towards me. At this point, I'm figuring I have the upper hand. Shoulda known better though.
Obviously figuring she's lost this round, Isis lets go of the tinsel and swipes a claw at my head for good measure. I duck the blow as the she does a quick one-eighty, presents her butt to me and sashays off into the kitchen. It's over. The tree is no longer, the tinsel is a mess, and my angel has gone to be with God – a good place for angels to be. Daniel has gathered up the downed baubles and is amusing himself by stuffing them down his diaper, and Isis?
She's hacking up a tinsel infused hairball on the kitchen mat.
I hate this cat.