I’ve had a few bouts with cats. Dirty fighters. Get you in a clinch and try to scratch your eyes out. Soft stomachs, though. A few shots in the old bread basket, and their trainer is throwing the towel into the middle of the ring. Iron Paws McGillicutty was one tough Tom. We was in the 15th round and Marty tells me that he thinks maybe Iron Paws is ahead on points. So’s I head butts him and them bam bam bam three fast left jabs. I was just settin’ him up. Then, I uses my right. Pow! Down he goes. I still remember Howard Cossell. “Down goes Iron Paws! Down goes Iron Paws!” Yeah...it was my fight that night. I coulda been a contender.
Coffee powered bobcat domestic mix with the bug eye out for some turkey breast from my sandwich.
I lost, horrifically.
After the docs removed the arm of the couch from my digestive tract, and they reattached my left arm below the elbow, the docs asked me how many men were involved in the attack.
I said it was my cat.
The first responders stated that the cat was as polite and friendly as could be.
I get out of the psych ward next year.