Tristram got his first cat scratch yesterday. Not from our cats; they still consider him sacrosanct. From a cat named Butterscotch he met when we went to the post-marathon grill party hosted by some neighbors Jonathan met in the park. And not really a scratch, either; the cat unsheathed his claws and swatted Tristram, but there's not a mark on him.
Nonetheless, he was stunned, much like someone from back East experiencing his first earthquake (if he'd never heard of earthquakes). He stretched his arm out in front of him and walked over to me--slowly, because he was so dazed--crying, "What did that cat do to me?" I explained that cats have to use their claws to say "stop it" because they can't talk, and then he went right back over and started trying to play ball with the cat again. Eventually the cat just left.
On the whole I consider it a very salutary experience, and I was pleased that I refrained from quoting Christopher Smart's "My Cat Jeoffry" at him ("He is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon").
Today is for altering my next sewing pattern so it will fit, before I have to return my precious, precious library copy of Fit for Real People. It's also for weeding one of the big garden beds at the complex, since my garden is a big hit and I'm now the garden volunteer in charge of the rock & hosta gardens, and for taking Tristram to the pool for his first swimming venture of the year. And probably for taking him to Olbrich again, since we got there so late on Saturday that the inside garden with the fish was closed and he cried his poor heart out.
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