In Which Oskar Steps Out

Our first cat, Oskar, is an ankle-biter. He is pretty specific about which ankles he bites, though, and the ankles he most prefers are mine. Schmutzie ankles are apparently quite tasty.


I am not sure exactly what he thinks he's doing when he's nipping at me, but it is usually accompanied by affectionate head-butting, so I think his intentions are fairly benign. Still, it kind of freaks me out. It reminds me of the fact that if I die and and am not found for a few days, he will in all likelihood eat my juicy and delicious eyeballs.

This afternoon, I heard a knock on our door. Two women were laughing on the other side. I hate answering the door, so I chose to take the sanest route through my problem and pretended to be otherwise occupied in the bathroom so that the Palinode would have to get it. Of course, he didn't hear the knock, as he was deeply occupied with an episode of The Middleman, which meant that I just continued to stand around in the bathroom listening to the women's laughter grow louder and more nervous with every passing second. When they knocked a second time, the Palinode finally answered the door.

"Is this yours? He's biting my feet!" I heard one of the women squealing. I couldn't see from my position on the other side of the bathroom door, but I think she was dancing in the hallway. I could hear her feet scuffling on the carpet.

It turns out that Oskar has been cheating on my ankles. He had escaped the apartment, run upstairs, and started chewing on another tenant's feet. What an asshole.

Grace in Small Things: Part 260 of 365

Grace in Small Things: Part 259 of 365