The Red Shirt Diaries #9

Ok, Mistress Myrtle – my cat, for the uninitiated- isn’t the sweetest of creatures.

Truth be told, she’s a real…bitch.  

But, I do try and love her and play with her when I’m home.  I read somewhere that being natural predators, cats like to play their little hunting games prior to mealtime.  Armed with that info – particularly since Myrtle makes Mikey look like a glutton – I try and play laser games with Myrtle prior to snack time or dinner, depending on which I’m home for.

The other day, it was snack time.  She chased her little red nemesis around for several minutes and when she began to show signs of tuckering out, I got out her dried salmon treats.  I was hand-feeding them to her and she was playing along nicely.  Of course, I got the idea to see if she’d take one from my lips.

How I thought my hateful beast and I had gotten to this point, I know not.  Don’t worry, it didn’t end too badly.

Of course, after sniffing it, she decided she wanted nothing to do with it, so I taunted her by moving it to my tongue.  When she just stared at me dispassionately, I shrugged and ate it.

It wasn’t awful.  But I did cleanse my palate with a hearty swig of Diet Coke.

Flash forward to my dream that night.

I’m at work, pushing some merchandise across the tarmac when I sense another presence.  I’m figuring it’s a ground crew guy.  They’re generally sprawled about unless there’s an active plane to guide in, push back or service.  I see no one, but the feeling persists.

I keep a wary eye out only to eventually notice a loose tiger.


I lose my shit as coolly as possible.  Continuing on my way with my rack of Portland tee-shirts, albeit with a slightly more urgent pace.  The cat tracks me.  I speed up.

I realize that I’m not going to teach my door and decide to hop up onto the roof of one of the Port pick ups.  

Bad idea.

The cat rears up on its back paws, bracing itself on the driver’s side window before dropping to the ground to decide how to get me.  It decides the pick up bed is the best path to the roof and I jump to the next pick up over as the cat jumps into the bed.

While it’s trying to decide how to switch vehicles, I scamper down to the tarmac on the far side of the situation.

The cat follows suit as I run for the stairs of the nearest jetway.  The frigging cat follows me up the metal stairs undeterred.

I know I’m not getting in that door at the top…even if I had permission access, I’d be hard pressed to swipe my badge and type in my PIN while still in one piece.  I slide down the emergency ramp and run for the nearest door while the big cat attempts to free itself from the base of the slide.

I reach an unrestricted door and just pull it closed as the cat leaps for the glass, bouncing off and tearing up to scratch hungrily at the glass as I scurry backwards up the stairs, away from danger.

I wake up, Myrtle sleeping lazily between my legs.

Lesson learned, don’t fuck with Myrtle’s food.

The Red Shirt Diaries #9

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