Humor reigned

Honey was probably the most patient cat I’ve ever known. He was my buddy. He trailed along behind me or sat on top of me or lay on my feet to keep them cozy while I slept for most of my childhood. We had an American Bull Terrier, some people call them pit bulls, that Honey would ride like a bronco, providing the family with laughs. His only problem was he fought a lot and even though he was quite large, strong and quick, on occasions he’d come home torn up. I had to be injured irreparably before my parents took me to the doctor. The cat was a step down the rung of the importance ladder. Mom would usually try to clean him up and doctor him a little but the general thought was leave him alone. Animals have a way of taking care of themselves.
When I was 8, my sister, her humorless husband, and baby daughter moved back to Colorado and in with us. Her husband made it a point not to laugh and my dad? well he never spent half a day without a joke of some kind. I didn’t really understand his lack of participation in our laugh feasts, but my father was bent on correcting the situation. My brother-in-law’s stoic reserve came to an end rather curiously.
Honey came in ripped and bloody. Mom wasn’t home. My sister and I looked him over with compassion. My heart was as torn as my cat’s skin. I might add here that my brother-in-law was also not fond of cats. He thought we should just shoot him. My dad suggested the things mama tried and that we might shoot Dean instead. That got an eye roll from the stoic.
Patty and I started in gathering our weapons of love before trying to contain the cat. Disinfectant, salve, gauze, tape, warm water and rags made up our veterinary supplies. My dad and I held the cat. Dad got the hind feet cause they kick harder. I got the fore legs, though they were closer to the mouth, which no one thought of.
Honey lay surprisingly still as my sister cleaned and dressed the ugly open wounds. Gradually the cat began to be uncomfortable with the whole thing, but we held firm. He chewed at my hand a little but stopped when I yelled. He had a lot of injuries this time. I’m not sure what it was that brought the cat to life. The last tape was not yet in place holding the last gauze when Honey shook us all off like loose rags and bounded to the highest point he could reach in the room, knocking varies pretties out of his way. He pulled away the unfinished bandage and began to lick the wound furiously. Then, as we watched on, his eyes bugged out, his tongue wiggled furiously and he began to howl.
He ran about the upper perimeter of the room, jumping and climbing from perch to perch. Each time he stopped, his eyes would bug, his tongue would wiggle furiously and the howling and jumping would start again. It’s not that compassion did not reign in our home, but that was the funniest thing I’d ever seen a cat do and it went on and on until we all, including my brother-in-law were rolling around, sides aching, trying to get our breath from laughing so hard. My dad stood up, shook my brother-in-law’s hand and welcomed him to the family.
Eventually, the cat sat still, eyes wide, body frozen. He’d make a move as if to lick his sore and then he’d stop and resume the frozen cat position again. This went on for some time. Finally my mom came home. Yes she saw the humor in it all, but she wouldn’t have the cat trashing the place. She gave the cat a bath, handed him over to me in a wet towel and told me to be gentle with the sore places but dry him off. As soon as he could get down, he ran into hiding and I didn’t see him again until the next day.
It’s a classic family story and every one has his own telling, but I like my version best.

The picture of course, is Hobbes.