If ever there was a cat that could be classified as evil, it was Taz.
Taz was my niece’s feline and was without doubt the most ornery, angry and downright nasty cat I have ever come across in my entire life.
If Attila the Hun had a cat, it would have been Taz.
To look at the furred menace you would never suspect what evil lurked beneath the fluffy exterior. From a distance, Taz looked like a regular old kitty with long fluffy fur, almost begging to be cuddled.
But much like campaign promises, danger and misdirection lurked beneath the pleasant exterior.
I first encountered the wrath of Taz many years ago while visiting my sister. I was walking through the living room and Taz was sitting under a coffee table looking around like cats have done since the invention of coffee tables and living rooms.
I never gave it a thought. Who would?
As I entered the danger zone, Taz struck with the fury of an animal that was wounded, trapped, hungry, threatened and scared – none of which applied to this particular fur ball of violence.
He was just sitting in his domain, without a care or threat in the world and that made the attack doubly startling. I did not see it coming in the least.
As my left foot set down next to the coffee table, the kitty of calamity attacked.
This was not just a little swat on the leg. Nope, this was a full-blown attack.
The monster struck like a lion on a defenseless gazelle. It clamped down on my calf with both front paws before sinking its Dracula-sharp teeth into my flesh.
I jumped straight up and tried to shake the beast off of me, but Taz was not done his attack – not by a long shot. I was actually hopping around the living room on one leg while furiously shaking the other trying to rid myself of the beast.
It seemed like hours, but the attack was over in a matter of seconds and Taz the Spaz, as I call him, released his prey and calmly walked over to the couch, confident he once again established his dominance over the world.
Meanwhile I had to get some bandages to stop the bleeding.
I asked my sister what in the hell that was all about.
“Oh that. That’s just Taz. He does that once in a while.”
“Well if he does it again I will show you a catapult using a real cat.”
Taz has had anger management issues his entire life and he pretty much hated everything and everyone, except for my sister and her daughters. With them, Taz was a gentle, loving creature that would let my young niece pack him around like a stuffed toy without so much as a meow.
Taz was not too crazy about my brother-in-law and he avoided the Spawn of Hell as much as possible. My sister also had two dogs – a lab cross and a shepherd cross, both of which were much larger than Taz and both of which were terrified of the psycho cat.
Taz, who was named after the Tasmanian devil from the Bugs Bunny cartoons, ruled the house with an iron paw.
That is why a posting by my now grown-up niece on Facebook did not sadden me in the least. The gates of hell reopened and took Taz back from whence he came.
“My much-loved Taz is gone. I will miss you” was her post.
What I wanted to reply was, “Good riddance. The world is a safer place and I no longer have to stay up late at night planning to have a cat whacked.”
But what I replied was, “I am sorry to hear that. My condolences.”
Farewell Taz, the world is a safer place without you, but hell just got a little more hazardous.