Now I suppose I have to be nice to the damn cat. Just cause I almost killed it. How was I supposed to know it can turn it’s head around like an owl? Dog’s can’t reach the flea poison between their shoulder blades, what the heck’s with a cat?

I grab the thing, pin it down, put flea killer on it’s neck and between the shoulders, then let it run off to wherever it runs off to. I go into Meg’s room to clean out the catbox before she gets home and theres the cat on her bed, looking like Bill the Cat on a bad day. Drooling, foaming at the mouth, acking, and twitching. Oops.

Needless to say, after catching the thing, shoving it’s clawing self under the shower and washing it, it’s back, and it’s unhappy mouth out, it’s fine now. Ignore the bloody arms I have.

I’m still not sure I want to be nice to it, but it slept next to me on the bed last night. I guess it’s afraid I might try to kill it again if it’s not nice. Hmmm….