Growing up, my family owned a cat we called “Kitty-Bob.” With his fluffy orange fur, rotund physique and surly disposition, Kitty-Bob reminded me of a real-life Garfield. I’m certain that if Kitty-Bob could have talked, sarcasm would have been his first language.
Kitty-Bob wasn’t always mean. He had tender moments … moments when he’d want to snuggle close enough for fingers to gently massage behind his ears and underneath his chin. But, unfortunately, those moments seldom occurred and when they did happen, they were on Kitty-Bob’s terms.
For instance, if Kitty-Bob was resting on the couch and was affectionately approached by a person who didn’t know him better, that poor, unsuspecting soul would be greeted with sharp claws and teeth. Given that piece of information, one would ascertain that Kitty-Bob should not be touched. Well … that approach worked just fine until Kitty-Bob decided he wanted his ears stroked and bit the closest hand to him before he smooshed his large head under said hand.
I’m telling you, that cat’s mean streak matched his girth.
While I’d classify my temperament in a much nicer league than the dearly-departed Kitty-Bob’s … I’m not always kind. In fact, I have mean moments. More than I’d care to admit. I shared a glimpse of my inner mean girl over at (in)Courage today. I hope you’ll wander over to take a peek … and if I do, I sure hope you’ll still come back here … I promise, I’m usually sweet.
Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.