I had a terrible, terrible accident last night.  Awful, it was.

I was dutifully entertaining the cat with his favourite toy (a foot long black plastic stick – it used to have feathers on the end, but Rochester clearly didn’t like ‘em as he ripped ‘em straight out!) when a stray claw swiped me, purely by accident and sliced my right forefinger clean off.  Obviously the pain was almost unbearable, but being a big strong man, I was able to hold back the girlie tears and perform some field surgery (ok, ok, it was more like living-room surgery) to repair the worst of the damage.

After staunching the blood flow and reattaching said finger, using a technique I invented when I was training the SAS (ahem), I decided to engage Rochester in a discussion about the error of his ways:

“Hey, Dude, you sliced my finger off,” I said.

 

Decidedly unimpressed, Rochester carefully examined a small patch of living room carpet.

 

“We need to discuss the negligent way in which you wave your pointy, pointy claws around.”

 

Rochester interest in the carpet deepened and he bent down to sniff it.  I couldn’t help feeling that he wasn’t demonstrating the appropriate level of sympathy with my plight.

 

“Don’t you care that I could have died?” I asked.

 

Rochester’s lack of response indicated that he did not.

 

“Look, you furry, fat f*cker”, I said, “If you mortally wound me again, I ain’t gonna feed you for a week.  See how you like that, *rsehole!”

 

It’s uncanny, how much a cat can communicate with a minimum of movement.  A slight twitch of one whisker, indicated to me that not only did he not care about my injury, but that if I continued to give him earache about it, he would snack on me during the night and use my remains as a litter tray.  In conclusion, he informed me (again, without moving), you my old son, are my bitch.  Say it.

 

“I’m your bitch,” I said, defeated.

I attach a picture of said injury.  You may demonstrate your sympathy by sending paper money to my chosen charity… er… me.