Of Eye Drops, Cats and Mauled Hands

I am sporting some impressive scratches on my right hand. I have been mauled. That is the best word for it. A lot of cold water flowed over my wounds before they even began to stop bleeding. Then they started again. My dinner companions, who included TBM, a friend made via these WordPress pages, were suitably horrified. No it wasn’t MasterB. How could it be? The students who found him on the street called him polite, and in his use of claws and teeth with me the word is accurate. It is completely inaccurate when it comes to his vocal demands and tantrums which would shame a toddler.
I am feeding Rosie, MasterB’s nemesis, the cat over the wall, while her family is away ski-ing. She’s lovely, a long haired honeybun of a cat who likes a conversation and a cuddle. She does not like her eyedrops. By extension, when I am administering said eyedrops, she doesn’t like me. Her revenge last night was as swift as it was savage. Today I took reinforcements; my friend Celia, wearing her gardening gloves, a towel and a pair of thick gloves I did not put on.
Rosie was delighted to see us both. We fed her, stroked her, sat down so she could join us, and tried to administer her medicine. The moment she realised we wanted to restrain her, she became determined to put space between herself and us.

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