That stupid orange cat...

... has scratched me for the last time. Totally my fault, because I should know better by now to not trust that stupid cat. But there he was, stretched out on one of the porch chairs and meowing so pitifully this morning. And what did I do? Well, of course I just had to pet him, and I was talking to him and telling him that the sun was bound to come out by the end of the week to warm him up a bit... and as I was talking, his paws came out with claws extended and I now have three bandaids on my wrist to cover up the Neosporin-tinted scratch marks that I have from that stupid damn cat.

I don't know what gets into the kitty-mind of that orange cat. He has a bed out there on the porch, fresh water and food, and still, he insists on slashing his claw-marks into either my hands or my ankles. Enough already. Right after that happened, I went upstairs to tell my husband that we truly need to get rid of that once-stray-and-forever-stray cat. Miss C was here this morning and suggested we try to capture him in one of the cat-crates or even a trash can. Trouble with that is, as soon as the orange cat sees any sort of box-like structure, he runs and hides in the barn or under the cottage. Which is exactly what he did when I brought the crate up on the porch this morning.

As I type, the little cat bed for the orange cat is inside the biggest cat-crate that I have. I covered up the entire crate with the same blanket that I was using to cover the top of the cat-bed out there..... so I'm hoping that the next time the orange cat gets into that cat-bed, I can slam the door of the crate shut and trap that stupid cat inside of it. Then off we'll go........ and I swear, if the local animal shelter isn't open, I will drive to the Lake and release that cat into the woods by the camping grounds. Let him find his own damn food and give his poignant meows to the campers and fishermen out there.

Stupid me for petting that orange cat. And stupid cat for the worst scratches he's given me so far... but now I won't feel at all badly when I take him away so he can start a new life elsewhere. And I do intend to tell the people at the shelter that he's not a friendly cat, and whatever they choose to do with him is out of my hands. (My scratched and bandaged hands.)