I'm beginning to think that we have perhaps misnamed the little black monster that lives upstairs and makes me question why, oh why, I thought getting a kitten was a good idea after swearing off the idea at the tender, but apparently much wiser age of 12.
Don't get me wrong, I like Barnabas very much, nay, even love my little rabbit-fur-soft bundle of love that tenderly rubs his head against my cheek, purrs in utter delight when merely seeing me at the end of the day, and licks my lips in affection (ok, I don't love that, because dude. YOU rub sandpaper across your lips a few times and see if you love it).
In short, he is sad when he doesn't see us, loves when he does, and is delighted when we play with him. In fact, he will play exclusively with a toy I give him simply because I threw it.
But there is a much darker side to that sweet little innocent face. Oh, yes, friends, much much darker. Plotting. Calculating even.
I see him in the bathroom, choosing his strategic positions, waiting, watching. The one moment you turn your attention away from that little stalker is the moment he's been waiting for. He leaps, jumps, twists, and claws out (naturally), lands on your unsuspecting lap or back or goes straight for your head. The yeeeeooowwwwch you screech in high enough levels that only animals are wincing in sympathy, produces a look of pleasure and the closest a kitten can get to laughing evilly.
He consistently attacks the hems of my pants (really, I'm convinced he's going for ankle), but ONLY when I do not have the squirt bottle to hand. He's gotten wily about that, trying to scratch or attack when the squirt bottle is not in his sight lines (oh, he hates that thing). I've watched him, eyes narrowed (both of ours), while he plots and plans.
And then last night. He's been given more and more freedom to roam while we are not there to supervise and has done beautifully. Because he has done well during naps, and even through an afternoon away, I left him out last night (ultimately, we have to let him free at night, or when I am pregnant again, bad things will happen as he occupies the entire upstairs bathroom and I cannot see the possibility of heading downstairs to pee and then back up again as a real one). What happened?
Oho, my sweet little fluffball? Went away. I could see the cold calculating gleam in his eyes, even in the dark. And sure enough, just as I am slipping into the warm embrance of Colin Firth . . . THWAP. That little bastard leapt up onto my chest from the foot of the bed and pulled his paw back and THWAPPED me directly across the nose. And it HURT. Little fucker. Then he did it again. THREE TIMES before I could untangle myself from the warm cocoon of blankets and call for DH. I could swear I heard him cackling as DH shut him away.
This afternoon, having not learned my lesson, I tried again. And the result? He tried to give me a new cartiledge piercing. Ouch.
But DH and I have figured out one thing - he is scared of the sound (or sight, god knows it could be either) of us having sex. Bwahahahahahhahaaaaaaa.
Oh, and one final piece of evidence that my cat is occasionally overtaken by a demon incarnate? He always, without fail, attempts to eat my gold cross.
Coincidence? I think not.