A few days ago, I took Toad on a walk around the block (as far as she can go). It’s good for her to have the illusion of adventure.
On this particular stroll, she stopped to do her business; Becca calls these walks her “business trips.” And because I am a responsible pet-owner, I had a plastic bag on hand. I scooped up the mess, tied the bag, and carried it home.
As we rounded the final corner, we came upon three stray cats – a dime a dozen in our neighborhood, unfortunately. Two of them scattered, but the biggest one, a giant black Tom, arched its back and hissed at Toad. Toad was like, oh no you di-in’t, and lunged.
The cat didn’t flinch. In fact, it got even angrier, growled that feral cat-growl, and shot out its claws like Wolverine. I stomped and yelled, hoping the cat would run – but it came even closer, fangs bared and hair on edge. Toad was about to get destroyed.
So I did the only thing I could think of. I swung the only weapon that I had.
And pardon the expression, but that cat learned a whole new meaning of the term “shit-faced.”