Last night I’m playing with my cat and her new favorite string. Suddenly, and I don’t think this is my fault, she runs over my foot. This results in long gashes going across the tops of four toes. This quite naturally hurts, so I start screaming and carrying on like a giant girl.
C, hearing the commotion, saunters on over. I pick up my foot and wave it at her. She says, “Oh, geez, she just scratched you.”
Of course, that’s when blood starts gooshing out of my foot. Hahaha, that’s what happens when you make light of my injuries! She sprints to the bathroom and returns with a considerable wad of toilet paper which she then strategically smooshes around on my foot. Thusly staunched (sort of), I announce that I’m going upstairs to stick my foot in the tub, pour some peroxide on my foot, and clean the cuts out. She tells me that she has just finished putting Drano in the tub, but I can certainly hop up on the teeny wittle counter in the downstairs bathroom and put my foot in the sink. For those of you without a visual, the counter pretty much is the sink, so what she’s actually suggesting is that I either: 1) do a weird combination ballet move/flamingo stance and clean my foot or 2) somehow stick my foot into the sink that my ass would be sitting in. Neither of these options is sounding really attractive, and the blood that had been held at bay by a wad of Angel Soft is now threatening to end up on the carpet. So I demand that she go into the kitchen and fetch the big pot. Which, of course, turns into “What pot?” “The BIG pot!” “The one you make pasta in?” “No, the OTHER big pot!” “The new one?” “NO, the one that would fit a foot!!”
Correct pot having been located, she fills it with water and somehow hits my foot because while I’m expecting her to, you know, put it on the floor, she’s holding it mid-air and raising it to meet my foot. I swear, she defies all logic in my world. The cool water feels lovely, and it’s really neat how little pink bubbles seem to be coming out of my toes.
She goes upstairs for supplies and comes back with the following: a roll of gauze, some Neosporin, handsoap, a giant pack of bandaids, and an Ace bandage. For real. She’s nothing if not prepared. She then attempts to wash my foot which means she’s attempting to not only touch my foot but she’s about to touch the things that hurt and that is not allowed. Ask my mother how many times I locked myself in the bathroom with an injury as a child. No one touches my scrapes, my splinters, and certainly not the bloody cuts that hurt. So I snatch my foot away and, okay, yes, splash her in the face a little. It isn’t on purpose so I don’t see why she gets all huffy.
Once I feel sufficiently de-germed, she pats me dry with a towel (after I object, of course, to the first towel because I claim it’s too “linty”). And then I am gracious enough to let her put bandaids all over my foot. I decline the gauze, tape, and Ace bandage, though it’s a sweet gesture.
And then, for the rest of the evening the cat stays near me and even sleeps next to my foot on the ottoman. It’s a weird sort of protectiveness, even though she’s the one that did it. C claims that the cat feels bad, but I know better. I caught her sniffing the bandaids and trying to claw the back of my foot when she thought I wasn’t looking and I’m keeping an eye on her.