Tikkabik

Max is our cat, and we love him. We rescued him from an animal shelter this February, and he's become an indispensible part of the family. He's got his own character and personality. He's a fifteen pound Maine Coon with brown tabby markings. A very handsome boy.

Max started life as a housecat but spent time outdoors after his previous family was, tragically, killed in a car accident. And it was long enough for him to develop some poor grooming habits. He hates, hates, hates being brushed. Because he's so big and furry, Max has trouble getting all of his fur groomed himself. So he's got tangled mats of fur on his belly and hindquarters that makes him look unkempt.

So last night Bonnie and I gang-brushed him.

Bonnie dug out the brush and comb and I grabbed Max. He started snorting and huffing indignantly as soon as I did so, and folded back his ears, tensing his body for escape. I propped him up on my lap with his forepaws raised upright so Bonnie could work at the knots of fur under his forelimbs and on his chest and belly, and it wasn't too long before his snorting and huffing turned into full-blown hissing and growling.

Working as fast as she could, Bonnie offered Max words of praise as she pulled off little tufts of tangled and matted fur, collecting them in a Tribble-like ball on the floor. Max did not cotton to this activity at all, however -- his hissing evolved into growling and yowling and moaning.

Meanwhile, I'm struggling to hold this writhing behemoth of a cat -- the sharp claws of his huge paws are scrambling for any purchase, including the skin of my own prodigious belly. He finally grabs hold and tries to pull his whole body upwards, howling in the process -- trying to gut me from navel to sternum like some vicious prehistoric beast.

We struggle for a few moments more and I'm now bear-hugging the cat, his deadly paws turned outward, as he glares at me -- well, more to the point, straight *through* me, yowling and howling as Bonnie resumes work on his tangled coat. It was no more than a few seconds later that Max, now leveraging his considerable weight, managed to work free from my grip and got ready to run away.

"Not so fast, cat," I say, and managed to get him back in my clutches. I succeeded in twisting him around again, now holding the cat in a full nelson to keep him still. At this point, if his facial expression and body language is any indication at all, Max clearly wants Bonnie and me both to die and go screaming straight to hell right this instant.

Bonnie manages to work a few more knots free when I look down and see a different look on the cat's face. It's a look of very dark and very bitter revenge. And then my lap goes warm. I've felt that warmth before.

He peed on me. The damn cat peed on me.

I let Max go and run upstairs to change my clothes. As I'm looking back on my way up the stairs, i see him staring back at me with a smug, satisfied look on his face. Max gives his chops a quick lick before he scampers off under the kitchen table. He spends the next hour glaring at both of us with a look that says, "YUO SI NAZIS."