Ducky's Not a Cat, He's an Ass!

Jesse brought Brigg home Saturday after they’d hauled back his load of wood from the Petersons’—and they happened to see a cat leap onto the sidewalk out of the trailer. Brigg warned me that our cat population may have possibly increased—much to my dismay!

Home alone (usual for my Saturday night), I had just wiped my teary eyes as I flipped the TV channel away from one of Sarah McLachlan’s miserable ‘Arms of an Angel’ Pet commercials—you know, those piteously forlorn animals that invoke immense feelings of guilt as they peer sad-eyed and frightened on the screen… I can’t watch them (never mind that genuine HUMAN children undergo the same deprivation, torture, and neglect—take a look at last week’s prize father that impregnated his poor 13 year old daughter 4 times, killing and burying each baby [except the last] in beer coolers in the yard just over the state line…).

Sadly lacking entertainment I find myself blogging about the loud meows that began right after I’d settled in to watch The DaVinci Code, so I jumped up (oh poor, poor kitty!) and coaxed the scared little thing into my arms and into the house where it promptly released its hugging, fuzzy paws from around my neck and bolted under the couch. I could tell right away it was a ‘Peterson Cat’ because they are about ½ the size of real cats and have somewhat shorter tails—many years of intense barnyard inbreeding—their miniature size is quite delightful and a fluke of nature when you think about it.

Quite proud that I’d caught kitty with little effort—it seemed like it desperately adored me on the porch; I made a quick phone call and soon discovered that this was a beige SATAN. I described its short golden hair, white bib and socks and was asked if its eyes looked reddish-brown. As it peeked at me, I saw indeed, they were a strange color…. “That’s Ducky…and he’s a horrible horrible cat. Mean. Terrible. Tries to rip out eyes. Tears up the other cats. Hoping the coyotes would get him. Ugh. Too bad he didn’t jump into the river. Maybe he’ll run away….”

Oh. This certainly put a new light on the situation as I carefully scooped up the feline psychopath and doubtfully dumped him into the elements. Still feeling chivalrous though, I poured a bowl of food and saw firsthand Ducky fly into a manic rage as Ursula, and then an unknown small black and white cat ventured around the corner (“2 Peterson Cats?” I thought incredulously).
Deranged Ducky swiped and yowled and growled at anything and everything and I had even placed food in 3 different locations around the yard so they didn’t have to share. Ah. Enlightenment. Talk about ‘biting the hand that feeds it’. He’s still showing up this evening and ripping into everything that crosses his path despite his diminutive size. Where does this scene proceed?? It seems he's a little jerk!