I have scratches on my hands and arms. I live with a predator.
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| Sexy Beast. "Who, me? Eat you? Nooooo" |
He's awfully cute and even occasionally cuddly, but I hold no illusions about our relationship. He's a stalker and a pouncer. I sometimes have scratches on my ankles. Some call them "love bites." I call them "tastes."
I read somewhere that there is an African aphorism, "only food runs." Stand still and you're less likely to be stalked and pounced. Dinner is a game best played in pursuit. Dinner is a game to be played slowly, painfully, relentlessly to the death.
Who thought it was a good idea to make "pets" (I use the term loosely) of these fanged and clawed creatures of blood lust? What is wrong with me that I love them so much? What kind of death wish is this?
I try to set down rules for our co-habitation. The most repeated, and ignored, rule is the "no eating" rule. As I discover some portion of my hand or arm in his fanged jaws, I remind him, "No eating! Remember? No! Eating!"
I figure I must be delicious. I try to take it as a compliment.
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| The head butt. Sign of affection or attempt to stun the prey? |
