Rollo sighs and huffs in my arms at the commotion and rests her head on my arm to continue watching.
Drew bends over at the waist and tries to stick his arm up between Miss Lippy’s body and his chest to push her away from him since pulling on her fur is obviously just pissing her off. She takes that opportunity to scramble up his face and onto his head, sinking her claws into his skull.
I’m sorry, but at this point, I have to laugh. Drew stands up when the cat gets to his head and is now trying to head-bang to get her to fall off, screaming the whole time because it’s just making her dig her claws in even further.
I sort of feel bad for him when I see the claw marks and blood dripping down the front of his chest, arms, neck, and face. It looks like he got into a fighting match with Freddy Kruger. But then I think about the fact that he's brought home not one, but two new animals at the same time we've had an infant in the house, and it kind of makes me happy that this is going on right now.
“IS THIS BECAUSE I TOOK A DUMP IN YOUR LITTER BOX? I TOLD YOU I WAS SORRY FOR THAT TOO. GET THE FUCK OFF OF MY HEAD!”
I walk across the room in an attempt to help Drew get Miss Lippy off of his head, but he’s too busy head-banging and hopping around the room for me to get close to him. Instead, I take a seat at the kitchen table, yawn, and get Rollo comfortable in my lap.
“YOU’RE A VINDICTIVE LITTLE BITCH, MISS LIPPY! NEXT TIME YOU YACK UP A HAIR BALL IN MY SHOE, I’M GOING STRAIGHT UP GANSTER AND POPPING A CAP IN YOUR ASS!”
It’s almost like Miss Lippy understands what Drew is threatening. As soon as Drew takes a break and rests against the counter, Miss Lippy rears up on her back legs and starts smacking Drew on either side of his head with her paws. It’s like something right out of Funniest Home Videos when the little kid is teasing the cat too much and it smacks the poor little kid in the face. That’s always funny because it’s happening to someone else’s kid. It turns out, this is even funnier.
I’m too busy laughing to see how he does it, but Drew finally manages to remove Miss Lippy from his head and tosses her to the kitchen floor. She hisses once more at him and then runs away.
“I can’t believe you didn’t help me. I could have been killed!” Drew complains.
I roll my eyes at him and stand up. “Oh stop, she wouldn’t have killed you.”
Holding Rollo to my chest, I turn and walk out of the room.
“You have no idea what that monster is capable of. You didn’t see her eyes. It was like looking into the windows of hell. I actually felt a chill. That cat is Satan. I bet she’s upstairs right now trying to suck the souls out of our kids. Why aren’t you more worried about this?” Drew demands.
“That cat is a sweetheart. You threw her into a pile of snow. What did you expect her to do?” I ask as I make my way up the stairs and Drew trails behind me, shushing me as we go.
“We need to stop talking about her. She’s probably listening and plotting our deaths. I bet she knows thirty-five ways to kill us and make it look like an accident. They’ll find our bloody corpses, and she’ll just be sitting there, looking up at them with those big, cute Puss and Boots eyes but no one will think she’s coming to do the Devil's bidding,” Drew whispers as we walk into our room.
He turns and looks both ways down the hallway and then quickly runs away from the doorway, over to the closet. I watch as he rifles through the closet until finally pulling out what he's looking for - a baseball bat. He lifts it up on his shoulder and puffs out his chest.
“You do realize Miss Lippy doesn’t weigh more than six pounds, and you’re ready to fight her with a metal baseball bat, right?” I ask him as I climb into bed and get Rollo situated next to me.
“Cold, dead eyes, Jenny! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s like you’re not even afraid of Satan! He wants to eat your soul!” he whispers loudly, creeping around the room and glancing nervously behind the nightstands and under the bed.
“She’s just a little kitty, Drew.” I sigh as he makes his way into the bathroom.
I hear the water running in the sink followed by cursing as he cleans off his scratches. He comes back into the room a few minutes later with the bat clutched tightly to his chest.
“That little kitty tried to gut me like a fish tonight. Do you want me to go downstairs and get you a weapon? I would totally do that for you. I would brave the wrath of the human-slayer to make sure you could sleep safely tonight,” he tells me seriously.
“I could probably make it to the first drawer on the left in the kitchen and get you a steak knife if I can bug out early and stay under cover until I make it back to the barracks without risk of another attack,” he whispers to himself.
When he starts talking like his father, I know he’s lost his mind.