Now for the meat and potatoes of the post--or, for all you vegetarians out there, the tofurky dogs:
1. Olivia from the Block
I was catching up on Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me this morning, and was elated to learn that the special guest for Not My Job was none other than the awe-inspiring Ice-T: rapper, actor, and child delinquent extraordinaire. For those of you who don't know, I've always felt that Mr. Ice and I were kindred spirits because we share the same birthday and we're both gangsters from the street (my street being 136th Avenue). Listening to him on Wait Wait brought us to a whole new level of close, though, because we both chose the exact same answer to each of the three questions. Only Ice and I would know that years ago, pantyhose for men were called Mantyhose. You know this means that Ice-T and I are basically the same person. Be jealous.
2. The 4:15 [Cat]astrophe
It was a quiet day. Some say a little too quiet. It should have occurred to me that the dead mouse I had swept from the path into the dustpan and thrown into the woods earlier that morning was a portend of sorts, especially with Cat Duke sitting amongst the planters and watching me ominously. I was oblivious, though. That was my first problem.
The day passed normally with no noteworthy events save for a brief conversation with a man who, upon seeing a five-sided wall plate near the desk, informed me that he "was in the building shaped like that on September 11th, 2001."
It was nearly 4:00 when I saw a man walk down the path with a giant German Shepherd on a leash beside him. He was a beautiful dog, and I couldn't help but notice every time he passed by sliding glass door near my desk that he was so calm and well-behaved for a dog like that--even a dog in general. The two cats, Max and Duke, were asleep in their usual spots in the front room of the shop right next to the door. It's the warmest place in the building and, being the first room that people enter, the best location to receive the adoration of customers.
By now the man and his dog had been perusing for close to 15 minutes, and I saw them both out of the corner of my eye pass by the door. The dog paused only briefly--if you could even call it a pause--and poked his head into the doorway. The next scene unfolded so quickly that I hardly know what happened. I certainly didn't know that in a matter of minutes I would have a cat literally dangling from my finger by its claw. Whoops, I just gave away the ending. Let me go back.
So the dog sticks his head into the shop, and at that instant both cats jolt awake. Without wasting a nanosecond they lunge at him, claws out and hissing, the hair on their backs bristling. The dog starts barking and jumps back into a pile of ceramic planters, and I hear them shatter. The cats have now succeeded in chasing the dog partway up the path, and his owner is shouting "Whoa! Whoa!" and pulling on the leash. I race out the door and the man is saying, "I'm sorry! They attacked him! I'll pay for those pots!" One cat--Max--had already pulled back and retreated into the shop, but Duke was still out in full-force. Every chance he got he leaped at the poor dog, jumping--and I kid you not--three feet into the air. I have never in my life seen a cat jump so high. The dog, no longer barking, moved back once more with such force that his collar slid right off over his head, and his owner looked down at the limp leash in his hands, utterly dumbfounded. I shouted Duke's name over and over again (I don't know what I thought that would accomplish, but I sure as hell wasn't going to pick him up when he was going all Matrix on me). I decided that it would be a good idea to get between him and the dog. Wrong. As soon as I did, Duke leaped onto me and sunk his claws into my right hand. Now, I have a vicious cat at home, so I've definitely been mauled by a feline before. This was no amateur assault, though. For close to four seconds Duke was writhing and twitching in mid air with his claw pierced into the fleshy part of my fingertip. When he yanked himself free he immediately scurried up the side of the arbor over the pathway and perched himself on the top while the man hurriedly escorted his dog back to his car.
Instinctively, as I have been known to do whenever I grate my hand on the cheese grater and am afraid to see if it's bleeding, I squeezed my fingers into my palm and refused to open them until after I had cleaned up the broken planters. My hand was in such pain that it was shaking, and the skin around each of the three gouges was turning a deep purple. This faded within a few minutes, but the cuts bled for a long time.
So. I have a shredded hand, the cats are still out there looking for the dog, and my last hour of work went by faster than any hour of work ever has and likely ever will. What a rush.
I realize I could have given you the abridged version, which would have read something like, "There was a domestic animal brawl and I got scratched," but where's the fun in that? If I've learned anything from my hero Ice-T, it's how to act like a G. What could be more G than a cat hanging from your finger?
The Notorious D.U.K.E.: three-quarters feral.
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