Crime Scene

My kitchen looked like a crime scene during the overnight.

All very innocent.

Took a nap from nine till midnight.

Because I worked till one a.m. for the last fifteen years, that’s when my cats are conditioned to eat. So Maggie and Blondie woke me up to remind me it was time to eat.

I went into the kitchen – barefoot, of course. Gave them a sprinkling of treats to satisfy them while I opened a can of the main course and dished it out.

Just after I set the bowls of cat food on the floor, there was a sudden noise outside. Nothing to concern yourself if you’re human. But if you’re a cat, you think the noise might be signaling the end of the world.

Spooked, they both hauled ass.

In the process, Blondie used the top of my bare foot like the rubber on a pitcher’s mound. And she wasn’t throwing a change-up. She pushed off like she was throwing a 100 mph fast ball.

I felt a little sting – didn’t think much of it.

But as I took my first step, I looked down to assess the damage – and blood was gushing all over the floor. It was just a pin-prick, just a sting. But because I’m on blood-thinners, I was looking at a gusher.

Here’s where trouble set in. I’m in a spot where there’s nothing within my reach to blot the leak. I left the roll of paper towels in the living room – a good fifteen feet across the carpet. Carpet I don’t want to track with blood.

Stumped, I do the only thing I can think of. I bend down and use the index finger on my right hand to apply pressure to the tiny wound. But it’s not stopping right away. And as I’m bent from the waist, I’m pressing my foot and staring at the blood pouring onto the floor.

That’s when I start laughing. Heads up here, because I’m going to be speaking French:

Are you fucking shitting me?
Am I going to bleed out right here in the kitchen?
Am I going to drop dead because Blondie is a chicken-shit motherfucker?

And that little shit comes back to investigate. She knows something’s wrong – but doesn’t know what.

Since you’re reading this, you know I survived. The pressure eventually stopped the bleeding and I was able to hobble into the bathroom:

Dumped a healthy quantity of peroxide onto my foot.
Didn’t trust a Band-Aid, so I found a gauze pad in the medicine cabinet and strapped it onto my foot with duct tape.
Elevated my foot – but not until I got a Dos Equis to ease my suffering.

You just never know when shit can happen. But the good news is – I survived.

In addition to being the official Eagles Outsider for BlameMyFather.com, Barry Bowe is also the author of: