daddy 1, magnum 0

Just went up to put Oona down for her nap (a girl can only eat so much pizza and butter tarts before she gets sleepy) when we were confronted with Magnum, the sleazy Siamese, sitting (arrogantly) in her crib. Fucking cat. So I shook the crib (it's on wheels) to let it know I/we wanted it out. NOW. But it wouldn't get out. All right, I said, taking Oona back downstairs to get the spray bottle (because the only one who can pick up this cat is C, and she's gone for the weekend).

Well. About the best way to describe what followed would be something along the lines of what the Christians must have looked like in the Coliseum. At first, stoic with faith (or in this case, obstinate with stupidity) followed by brain-collapsing panic as the lions came bounding in (or one is repeatedly hit with aimed streams of cold water). He suddenly forgot how to get out, even jamming his head through the bars. Finally, he must have remembered -- Oh yeah, I actually performed a *bigger* leap to get in here -- and managed to jump out. A sheet was ripped. A nail was lost. And hopefully, someone will forever associate the crib with sheer, unbridled terror.


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