Grace Under Pressure

Something I need to work on is my capacity to maintain grace under pressure. Evidence to this assumption is that yesterday I was out walking my dogs and we were attacked by a cat. It was less a cat than it was a crazed killer mountain lion in the body of a domestic feline. Anyway, I was occupied watching a woman with a baby in a back pack walking along the opposite side of the street with two dogs. She was dressed in clothing I suspect was made of hemp, definitely had dreadlocks, and was humming audibly. She looked far more suited to a hippy commune than she did to super-preppy downtown Charleston. She exuded such an air of relaxed “whatever” that it was somewhat disorienting to see that she had the dogs on leashes--she definitely seemed the sort to never confine a fellow creature in anyway. Although the baby was in a backpack, but babies cannot walk so I bet when baby is two or three baby will have free-reign. Anyway, as I was observing/rudely staring at this woman, a scuttlebutt seemed to arise out of nowhere with my two dogs. I looked down and the aforementioned “cat” was on my dog Freya’s back. How he got there was a mystery soon to be solved.

Freya, a 30 pound German Shepard mix, threw him off—with considerable effort (apparently our new friend was not of the declawed variety, and despite the controversy over that procedure, given the unfolding scenario, it was an arguably poor choice by his owners). The cat landed on his side on the ground. He then hissed at Freya, baring his teeth and all. Freya, undeterred by what she must have seen as a rather piddly attempt at intimidation--the cat was half her size--snapped quickly back at him and then, in an attempt to maintain some of her dignity (Freya is innately quite dignified) started to turn and walk in the other direction. Apparently this reaction did not go over too well with this insane feline who wanted, apparently and inexplicably, to kill Freya. The next thing I know the cat is flying through the air. And I mean he lunged and literally hurled his body as though he just popped out of a cannon. He landed, once again on Freya’s back. At least I now know what transpired in the few seconds I was otherwise occupied staring at the hippie woman.

I think it is important to impart a full visual of what was going on: the cat is clinging to Freya’s back, Freya is angry and is now interested in not only getting the heck out of dodge but in perhaps taking a bit of a chunk out of little tabby’s bod just as a friendly reminder not to mess with creatures twice his size. Bruce, meanwhile, my 15 pound terrier mix, is all pomp and circumstance. He is running in circles, fast as can be, and yelping as loud as his ear-drum piercing little vocal chords will allow him. He is being no help to Freya by the way, and definitely pretending to charge the cat, only to back up before he enters the vicinity that could be truly deemed the danger zone. Remind me not to bring Bruce when and if I ever expect to be involved in a bar brawl.

But you know what they say about people in glass houses. Therefore you might be interested to know that me, the Caesar Milan trained, dominant pack leader is taking a page from the recently observed hippie’s book—I am setting a truly alternative example for my little canine children. I am frozen in place, tangled leashes in my hands, heart rate reaching maximum poundings per second and plea bargaining in a voice that is about 8 octaves higher than the octave at which I normally speak (which is, incidentally, about where Minnie Mouse operates). My ingenious wording: “Please cat, leave us alone, I think you might be crazy. You are being so mean. We do not like you and want you to stop.” I have a newfound respect for police and/or anyone who has ever tried to talk a suicide victim off a ledge.

As my feet/cinder blocks are stuck to the pavement and my darling daughter is being pummeled in what can only be described as a jungle cougar brawl, suddenly the door to the house we are fighting/yelping/plea bargaining in front of opens. A woman swooshes out and deftly picks up her cat, who is now hissing on the ground after being tossed a third time from Freya’s back. “So sorry,” she said sweetly. It was the same sort of apology that might be uttered if she had accidentally bumped my grocery cart, and seemed rather unsubstantial for excusing an attempted murder. She disappeared before I had a chance to say anything, although that was actually a good thing considering what I was about to say was a rather mediocre rebuttal in the form of: “Your cat is mean, and we do not like him.” I turn around to walk away, and see the hippie standing there, still humming, still hemped out in blissful hippiedom. She smiled and drawled happily: “Wow. That’s some cat, isn’t it?” Amazing. She witnessed violent near-bloodshed and she was cool as a cucumber. I collected my sweaty, teary, shaky self and waddled off, making a mental note to start wearing hemp.