Jennie Smash

Cuica attacked my head today.

I was sitting on the couch, putting on my shoes, as you do, when she jumped up on the arm and started doing her Kitten Porn routine. This involves her slinking around in a variety of charming and coquettish kitty poses, and meowling winsomely, until the person she’s fixated on refills her food or pets her or does whatever it is she’s looking for. Because there’s something on her mind, that’s for sure. You don’t get the Kitten Porn routine if she’s just being social. Then, you get the Kitten Dance, which consists of her spinning around in a circle, as though chasing an invisible string.

“Meowl,” she said, batting her eyelashes. Or something.

“What’s up, Cuicks?” I reached for her head to pet her, and she jumped up on the back of the couch, out of reach. So not petting then. Maybe food? “Are you hungry?”

“Meowl.” She wound around my shoulders for a minute, and then, no word of a lie, started to chew on my hair.

“Oh my God, you freak. What are you doing?”

Chew, chew, chew.

“Sean, Cuica is chewing my hair.”

He came into the living room. “Yes. Yes, she is.”

“OK, but why is Cuica chewing my hair?” He shrugged. I craned my neck to look at Chewy Chews. “Cuica? Why are you so crazy?”

As if in response, she jumped on head and sank her claws into my scalp.

“JESUS!” I grabbed my head. Cuica bolted.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine! But she just, like, tore a hole in my scalp.”

“She gets carried away. It’s like the closest she’ll ever get to having sex.”

This, by the way? Is where I draw the line. I like Cuica and all, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let her have sex with my head. She’ll just have to go back to the telescope. I’m sure they can work it out.