I’ve made clear many times how Loki doesn’t take no for an answer. When he wants something, he demands it with much pushing and hitting and general violence. He’s singularly responsible for more damaged clothing and profuse bleeding—on my part!—than the rest of The Kids combined.
The problem is he’s not patient. At all. When he wants attention, he wants it RIGHT NOW! And if I don’t give it freely and immediately…he takes it by force.
So I recently sat on the bedroom floor hanging out with The Kids when Loki sauntered in and realized I made easy prey being down at that level. (In truth, I’m not safe anywhere when he decides it’s time for some lovin’.) While the other cats lounged about and soaked up attention, in charged the god of mischief, pushed them all aside, and proceeded to beat the tarnation out of me until he got what he wanted.
Don’t believe me? Here’s the proof.
Sure, I know he looks all innocent and everything, as though he’s gently touching his pet human, but looks are deceiving. Very deceiving.
Notice the whirlwind paw action going on there. He ain’t playin’ around. He just goes on smacking me like a schoolyard bully pounding the class nerd. It’s our ugly domestic abuse secret, I swear!
It wouldn’t be so bad if all he did was paw me incessantly. But you see, Loki doesn’t believe in doing anything halfway.
Now do you appreciate the problem? He uses his claws! Egads! Every hit represents a new hole in something. Sometimes my clothes; sometimes me.
For Loki does not just restrain himself to body blows. Oh no, that would be too polite for a beast who’s equal parts beauty and evil. Nope, he plays for keeps.
See what I mean? He’s taking a swing at my face. He’s a smart one, that devil, because he understands that will most certainly get my attention. Not that the rest doesn’t, mind you, but claws to the face with a few brutal smacks to drive the point home absolutely makes me cower in a corner and give him whatever he wants.
I leaned back in a feeble attempt to escape this assault of feline fisticuffs. What did he do? Adapted his approach of course.
Yep, he shifted positions and which paw was propped up on my leg, a maneuver that negated my quick retreat. And he still went for my face.
In the end he won the fight—as he always does—and I gave him all the attention he could stand. Afterward, I went to the bathroom and nursed the wound on my chin, the wound on my cheek, and the wound on my nose, not to mention several crimson racing stripes on my hands.
Do you think there’s a community outreach center where abused humans can go to talk about their violent feline owners?