Flinging Cats on Movie Night

I can not tell you how many times, and for what assortment of reasons, I have thrown live cats at my husband. But let me assure you, in 12 years of marriage, no animals have been injured or abused. At the most, some were left mildly perplexed.

See, it all began with Family Game Night. A compromise with the children who begged for a Family Movie Night, but due to their desperate pleas to be allowed to swim in freezing cold water during winds strong enough to elicit a small craft advisory, dinner was an hour and a half later than usual. Not enough time for a movie. But, thanks to the creative powers of public schools and the endless limitations of online education, the children had a new game they wished to play with us instead called Find It. The rules were simple. One person calls out something the others must locate from anywhere in the home, and present back to their lap. First one to Find It wins, and becomes the caller. It’s pretty easy online. It’s annoyingly harder when you are all in the same room with the same objects!

It began with me requesting something that starts with the letter Q. That transpired in to Manchild asking us to find something “old”, and Girlchild asking us to find “a nail polish color that would look good on Grover dog.” That lead to Manchild rummaging through her bedroom (she is the only one in the house owning nail polish), which to her abject horror, she learned about only after he brought her the requested polish. Am I the only one not seeing the benefit of thinking things through here?

But the real winner tonight was when Captain Schenanigans asked us to bring him a live yellow cat. Of which, of course, we only had one. Jax. And there were three of us. So, I lay on the sofa and watched the children tumble their way down the stairs to search the den, or Girlchild’s room, or anyplace mircofleece has been tossed down. After a moment of silence, I remembered the cat bed was in MY room, just down the hall. I stand up, and begin moseying down the hall just as the first child bounds up the stairs, and down the hall behind me. I reach the cat bed first, extricate the feline from said slumber containment unit, and hold him high above my head.

By this point, the second child has crashed into the room and has joined the first kid jumping at my shoulders. I am just hoping my arms are longer than the cats legs, as his claws and my eyeballs are dangerously close to one another. Not surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to be in a “thinking clearly” sorta mood at this point. Cat high above my head with his belly soft and limp, I start my retreat to the living room with one dangling yellow cat, who seems to be stretching at an alarming rate!

By this point the young ’ems have figured out they are not tall enough to reach our prized pet, and have started a defensive technique instead. One of my loving children, I strongly suspect Manchild who tackles like an NFL player, throws their arms around my waist, launches all their weight against me, and attempts to drag me backward.  The other, I believe though I can’t clearly recall in the fog because at some point I started closing one eye to protect it from any swinging claws, seems to be alternating between hanging off my shoulder with grabby hands, and joining child #1 in their tackling attempts. At this point I have 166lbs of opposition pressing against me, and 10lbs of confusion hanging above my head, and my arms are getting tired.

I lock my elbows to protect my eyes, and slog forward into the dining room. My footless onsie pj’s are sleek against the sweaty mitts of my offspring, and their hands slide down my waist as I walk.  I think I see a flash of my husband’s red shorts near the finish line and joy surges in my chest. But when I look up he is gone. Darnit!! I’m not sure I can go any further, and he just added another 4 feet on to my expedition (later he admitted to coming into the hallway to watch the noisy racket like some smug spectator, but refused to assist my win, choosing instead to hustle back to his recliner and make me complete the entire journey). For this he shall pay.

I narrowly make it through the dining room, pivot 300 degrees on my right heel and face the corner of the living room. I then  hurl the cat with all my might at the no longer smug looking man comfortably observing from the lounge chair. Shockingly to us all, after a complete 180 of yellow fur though the air and around the corner, this priceless tabby is gently caught, safely and snuggly, in the massive arms of Captain Schenanigans. There’s no meowing or clawing. Truth be told, Jax doesn’t seem all that worked up about his flight!

Jax the cat did opt not to stay in the room with us upon gaining his freedom, he seemed to have time sensitive things to attend to in the basement after all. However, later in the evening, as I found him lounging upon Captain Schenanigan’s pillow in silent revenge, he really appeared no worse for the wear. For as much as I feared his claws digging into my flesh as I carried him like a shedding torch though my home, I never actually felt anything sharp. So while lesser cats may have panicked and clung to my wrists, it may be entirely possible that Jax the Charming has become used to our schenanigans, and even developed a low grade tolerance to the ruckus that becomes us. I know I sure have!

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