Odin is a cat. In the evil sense. He likes to toy with my emotions and I believe that he enjoys every minute of it. In the last few months he has formed a new ritual.
It involves becoming “purry-cat” at around 9pm every night and slithering onto my lap in a warm ball of utter devotion. He snuggles into me, purring and giving me that look (ex: The Look of Love). I pet him, coo sweet nothings into his velvet ears, and wonder when my heart will explode with adoration for him. It’s all wonderful and magical and precious until my fingertips push some invisible button that connects to the hateful part of his brain. The location of this button varies. One night it could be on his head, another his side. I never know until I hit it and then all hell breaks loose.
As soon as I touch the button of hate, Odin’s back feet start kicking like a bunny. Flinging my hand away and puncturing my skin with his death-claws. Unfortunately, Odin ensures that by laying across my body I am in a vulnerable position. I wait until he goes back to sleep then tentatively place my arm back down so that I don’t have to continue holding it above my head. Every so gently, so that I don’t disturb nap 32 of the day. He eyes me warily, almost hatefully enough that I can imagine a crease between his eyes. His tail ticks against me and I feel the fear in me bubble up over and around my spine like tiny spiders crawling against my skin. Then he attacks. He grabs my arm in a tiny vice grip of claws and gnaws on my fingers. Pincer-like teeth pricking my fingers like a porcupine. Of course this is not enough for Odin. He is only just getting started. He then combines all of his attacks into one. Bunny-kicking and biting while gripping onto my arm like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling over the edge of an abyss. I take it, because to move would mean to have his embedded claws slice through my palm like a knife through butter. He goes on for awhile, as I wince in pain, and then stops abruptly. He leaps off of me as if I were covered in something disgusting and runs off down the hall. Apparently satisfied.
The unfortunate thing is that this happens just about every night. And I fall for the purry-cat face every time.
You know, if you spell gullible backwards it sounds like sandwich?