No, really. *heh* I hit a dry patch in my to-do list (well, the to-do list is still there, what dried up was my git-up-n-do-it ;-)) and was cruising through the WMC list of available Internet TV offerings. Ran across a snippet from Fox News (a “human interest” piece, I suppose) about an Arkansas family that called 911 because they were being held hostage in their own home… by their neighbor’s house cat.
Pussies.
Oh, here’s the video (mostly):
Held hostage by a house cat. *shakes head in amazement* I find that literally mind-bogglingly bumfuzzling. I don’t care how “scary” a house cat seems, these people ought to accept their Darwin Award before they reproduce.
(Now, I know some house cats can be pretty tough. We had one in our family, back in the day, that topped 25 pounds and edged upwards from there–and not fat. Big boy. We got complaints from folks down the street about him “beating up” their German Shepherds. But was he big enough, mean enough, fast enough, dangerous enough to be able to “hold hostage” any adult human being with more active brain cells than a head of cabbage? Not a chance. “People”–and I use the term loosely–nowadays can be such useless, stupid, cowardly bags of pus that it’s hard to believe that they are. People, that is.)
I had a house cat that terrorized German Shephards once, but she never held anyone hostage.
OK, maybe we suffered from Stockholm Syndrome, but we loved that cat.
*heh* The neighbors down the street called animal control on Ted, one time. The ACO refused to mess with him, so my little sister just went and picked him up.
What a pussycat.
In high school, my first Spanish teacher had an ocelot she had brought back from Central America as a cub (back in the day when it was rumored she worked for The Company). She lived in a pretty rough part of town where all the rock walls had glass embedded in the top courses, wroughtiron bars on windows, etc…. or were frequently burglarized (and often even with these measures). She had exactly ONE burglary attempt in all the years she lived there. The only way they knew was by portions of the intruder’s pants (and bits of flesh) left behind. Word spread (and not just via the newspaper bio of her that featured her ocelot). One intrusion, no more.
Now, THAT was a pussycat.
Were I to find a “big bag o’ money by the side of the road” my eventual “family compound” would feature “pet” cheetahs as substitutes for watchdogs. “Here is what a [“feddle gummint” bureaucrap] smells and looks like. Now go, hunt well. But do not eat what you catch in this hunt. Toxic.” Ought to work, eh? *heh* (I kid, I kid.)