Some ungodly hour after midnight I woke abruptly, startled awake by the sounds of a cat, apparently dying.
"Mycroft!" I shouted, flinging my covers off. "Mycroft!" I hated the little turdwipe, but he meant so much to Sarah, and I'm sure I'd bawl too if he'd slipped out of the house and got hit or eaten by raccoons or something.
I raced downstairs towards the sounds of his screeching, convinced he'd slipped out a window or something and was battling opossums in the dark. But no, the damned cat was thrashing about the living room, yowling and shrieking like I've never heard a cat before. I was half-convinced he was dying, half-convinced something had snuck in through the screens somehow. I shouted and called and chased him around in the dark to no avail.
I stumbled over him, earning yet another hiss and howl, and finally found the wall and light switch.
…and there in the entry-way lay Legolas, the cat-spit covered figurine, his head being gnawed.
"Goddamnit, Mycroft!" I pulled the damn cat back, earning myself complimentary scratches to the hands, face, and boobs. "It's just a fucking toy! If you hate it so damned much why bother!" He dropped it, though, with some yelling and shaking and not a few bites to my fingers. I let him go the minute I had Legolas, but that damned cat chased me into the kitchen where I threw (alright, laid gently) the stupid statue into the silverware and slammed the drawer shut (carefully).
He swiped me a few good ones across the ankles, hackles raised, spitting mad, before I managed to grab the squirt bottle and lit his little kitty world on fire. "BAD CAT BAD CAT BAD CAT—!"
Sarah hated negative reinforcement, said it was the worst way to try to teach humans or animals manners, that it was cruel and unnecessary, but damnit, Sarah wasn't there at the moment, and it wasn't animal abuse if the damned thing was outright attacking you. Eventually he turned tail and ran, and I'm embarrassed to say I wasn't above a few well-aimed parting shots.
So there I was, panting in the kitchen, arms, legs, neck, face, and boobs scratched to hell, blood all over me, little bloody paw prints everywhere, and puddles of water all over the floor. I let my weapon clatter to the floor, and helped myself to a generous serving of an entire Ben and Jerry's carton glumly surveying the damage from my perch on the sink. Wasn't this just swell.
It took nearly an hour to clean up, and by that time I was sweaty and gross and decided to shower and by the time that was over I only had like an hour until I had to get up, anyways. I decided to hell with it, though, and went back to bed.
I couldn't sleep. Or rather, what little sleep I did get was restless. In my nightmares I was chased by a bigger, maniacal version of Mycroft, shooting at me with a spray-gun filled with acid water as the house dissolved and melted around us. I woke with a start, and couldn't get relaxed again no matter how hard I tried.