What We Are About To Do Here Is What The Good Lord Would Call A Cleansing of the Wicked. I Call It A Good Old Fashioned Texas Ass Kicking.
Nice R1
I've only ever met two cats who didn't like me . . . Mrs. Bacon's big ole guy Casey, who took a hearty dislike to me for absolutely no reason (although he adores my shoes and sticks his head in them when I take 'em off), and my last boyfriend Warthog's giant mutant Mr. Hollywood.
Mr. Hollywood was roughly 24 pounds of coal-black fury with yellow eyes and claws like vampire fangs, and hated me with unreserved, visceral hate. But then, he didn't like anyone, not even Warthog. Warthog acquired him one day when he opened the door and Mr. Hollywood, then a svelte kitten of six pounds, ran in, climbed his curtains, and perched on the curtain rod, hissing at him. The damn cat wouldn't leave.
He used to lie in wait under the couch, and when I'd sit down he'd try to hamstring me. He had to be routed out with a lacrosse stick.
All he wanted was more food and to not be petted, although one time he did eat half a joint and freaked out for three days. (Mr. Hollywood, that is, not Warthog, who to my knowledge never ate a joint. But I couldn't watch him every minute.)