PROOF.

I wasn't joking around, here.
15 September 2000

My first mistake was thinking that it was Eric I had to fear last night, after yesterday's entry. After reading through the entry, he seemed to be pretty calm about everything.

My second mistake was deviating from my nightly schedule and deciding that instead of surfing late at night, I'd lay in the other room on the futon and read my book while I waited for Eric to get home from poker.

My third mistake was assuming that I was blessed with kitty love last night. In a strange behavior change, Taylor kept jumping into my lap, demanding some attention. I pet him until he drooled all over me. He never drools. I assumed he was just happy to be safe in my lap for a few minutes. He'd leave and then come back, leave and come back. No big deal.

My fourth mistake was in assuming that the reason Cal wanted to sit on me was because he was jealous of Taylor's attention and was trying to make up for the attempted murders over the past week when he thought I had killed Eric off.

That last mistake was the largest mistake.

I'm on my back, reading my book, enjoying the quiet. Cal is curled up on my stomach, as much as a twenty-pound cat can curl. It's actually his front paws draped on one side of my waist, and his back paws hanging off the other side, while his head rubs into my outstretched palm.

I started getting tired, and eventually put my book down, put my arm over my head, and took a little nap.

Then Eric came home, and all hell broke loose.

It was the sound of the key in the lock that alerted Cal that his favorite person in the world was home. In a little, "I won't be needing YOU anymore" motion, Cal kicked off my stomach and leaped through the air to run to the front room. In doing so, his back claws digged into the space next to my navel and continued slicing my flesh until they ran out of skin and he had sufficient flesh behind his claws to get a pretty good vertical leap.

I screamed. I yelled. I writhed in pain.

"Where are you, baby?" Eric asked. Somehow he can get lost in our two bedroom apartment when I'm dying from blood loss. 911, he's not.

"I told you! I told you he wants me dead!" I screamed.

His smirk faded when he saw my stomach. "Oh, God. Are you okay?"

"No, it really hurts."

Eric applied some Neosporin and I went to bed. It hurts to walk. It hurts to sit. Even though I wore my baggiest of jeans today, the waistband still hits the cut when I sit down.

As you can see, I'm marred. I'm ruined. I'm hideous. I can only hope that it doesn't scar, as it looks like (and cleverly like, I might add) I had a nasty appendix operation.

I don't trust that cat at all anymore. He wasn't even slightly sorry.

Later, in bed, trying to sleep:

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