One Little Nip

People say cats are jerks. They are standoffish, aloof, vicious killers (of small things) and generally terrorize the homes over which they reign. People tend to agree that it is only the size of that average house cat that keeps them from tearing us to shreds and eating us while we sleep.

People are right - but that doesn't mean we don't still love them.

We bought our cat Bolo (as in Be On The Lookout) aka Gato Diablo, from an overly-crowded, overly-peopled, overly-animal-ed and overly-children-ed house on the edge of town during a vicious rain storm. I took one look at that perfect little kitten face, with his massive blue eyes ringed in black and fell in love. While my husband, Ryan counted out the $75 in cash, I tucked the tiny ball of fluff and heat into my jacket and promised him I would give him a good life.

But this is not the story of how Bolo joined our family, nor of how he earned his name - but of how he proved - once and for all - that cats are - truly - the apex of predators.

We lived in a tiny condo on the third floor of a relatively quiet building. To keep Bolo engaged and help burn off some of his energy, we played a collection of games. including, but not limited to "The Corner Game" in which a human hides on one side of a corner, the cat hides on the other, and they swat at each other, generally until the cat drew blood or one of the players tired of the game and leapt out from their side of the corner. This generally started with “The Chasing Game” in which either the human would chase the cat through the house, or the cat would chase the human, and then they would switch. This game again, generally ended with the drawing of first blood (always human blood) or when one or the other party got tired. There was also “The Fighting Game,” consisting of a human donning a dedicated oven mitt and then reenacting those police dog attack training videos you see on TV but replacing the German Shepard with an eight-pound cat. Again, this game generally ended in the cat finding his way passed or through some weakness in the glove and drawing blood.

Finally, there was the game we dubbed “Sneak Attack.” Bolo might have been a Ninja in another life, as he would randomly jump out of nowhere and attack, causing great alarm and panic among the residents of the house and any guests unlucky enough to be caught in the crossfire.

One night, a rare Vancouver Island snowfall coating the balcony railing and whispering against the window, I sat in the corner of our couch, tea steaming in a mug on the coffee table, a book propped open in my lap. Ryan, a 240 lb competitive powerlifter, and tattoo enthusiast (see image above) was cooking dinner in the adjoining kitchen. The Christmas Tree/Solstice Bush glowed against the window, outlined in the blue light of winter dusk and all was calm and peaceful. Then my husband went to the bathroom, and all hell broke loose.

Down the hall, made a midnight silhouette by the combination of the dim hallway and the bright bathroom light at the end, I watched his broad back walk away from me. Then there was a streak of shadow and light, a pink nose, and wicked eyes ringed in black. Before the words “Watch out!” could be formed by my brain, Bolo clamped his teeth down on Ryan’s Achilles tendon. The man fell like a tree, chopped from its stump and hit the ground with a roar. Bolo turned and ran towards me, his little feline face alight with bloodthirsty glee as Ryan lurched to his feet. A string of curses so foul they would have made my redneck uncle blush flowed from his mouth as he chased our little killer down the hall and into the living room. Bolo leapt into my lap, and sat down, purring, squinting his cat eyes up at me, and looking so innocent, I thought for a moment I must have imagined the deadly attack.

Ryan looked at Bolo and threw up his hands. “You got me, buddy.” Then he headed back towards the bathroom, glancing over his shoulder nervously every other step.

So I sat in the renewed stillness, cat purring in my lap, tea cooling on the table, book forgotten as I marvelled at what I had just witnessed. An eight-pound cat felled a 240 lb man with one single, perfectly placed nip.

Cuddle your cats close, my friends. They might be planning your demise.

With Love,

Regina Grimm