Mean Cats

Damn. Yes­ter­day Moon­stone attacked G’s ear because she was try­ing to get him out of the garage, back into the house. She bled all over the place—I mean, we had to wash blood out of the sweater she was wear­ing and it took quite a while to get the bleed­ing stopped. Today Mica attacked R’s arm with absolute­ly no provo­ca­tion, draw­ing blood. Every time we pick them up to remove them from a place where they should­n’t be, they’ve start­ed bit­ing and claw­ing us. Some­times when we’re sim­ply walk­ing through the house, one of them will sud­den­ly attack an ankle or calf.

I am a bona fide cat per­son. I have lived with them all my life. I have NEVER raised a mean cat before. Not once. I’ve always giv­en them lots of love, let them come to me instead of pick­ing them up, etc. Any­body who has met Shel­ley will tell you that she is an extreme cud­dle slut. Andre and Thomas were the same way. So were Cas­tor and Pol­lux, long-deceased kit­ties I raised with my first husband.

So why are Mica and Moon­stone so mean? I can’t fig­ure that out. R and G are a new fac­tor, but they were around Andre and Thomas a lot, too. Shel­ley is an old, set-in-her-ways cat, and she isn’t pick­ing on them at all—she just wants to be left alone.

I won’t have mean ani­mals around. I nev­er have. There is no rea­son to tol­er­ate it, and I’m start­ing to real­ly wor­ry about what they’ll do to one of the babies or tod­dlers who vis­it us. They may be going to the pound to be euth­a­nized if this continues. 🙁