A few years ago, Chris had the bright idea to adopt a “working” cat. For you city folks, a working cat is an outdoor feral mouser. They also are known as barn cats. They are meant to remain outside and do what they love to do. What God created them to do.

At this point I had only known our friend Doug’s barn cat named Alex Baldwin. Scruffy little calico gal (yes gal…no gender specific names apply to cats!) that showed up occasionally. So when Chris said let’s get some mousers I thought, sure what the hell.

I called the local shelter and they had a feral male that they were going to put down due to him not being trainable and slightly psycho. I go pick up the cat and instead I lifted up a small cougar. He weighed more than our cocker spaniel and she wasn’t a tiny girl. The weight wasn’t fat either. He was a solid ball of muscle. Knowing I was taking a chance of having my eyes scratched out, I let him out slowly in the car. The sweet bohunk curled up in my lap and fell asleep. And Bruce came home. (Sybil and Caris would follow but this is about our big boy…..)

Over the years Bruce has been a great mouser and fur baby. He allows Evan to drag him around, loves taking walks in the woods with Chris and snuggles with me when he can. When he’s in the house, he meows to go outside to use the facilities. But he’s not trainable….eye roll.

There’s a dark side to our Brucey. He likes to stalk us, charge out of no where and latch his claws and teeth into our ass cheeks. He will turn on you as quick as you can say fancy feast and likes to be a total dick to the Ladies, Sybil and Caris. He’s kind of a lovable ass, like most men.

This morning at 2:30am I woke up thinking E was watching tv. Ready to crack into him, I jumped out of bed only to find our sweet kiddo dreaming. The noises were coming from the front of the house and sounded like screams. No Clarice they aren’t the lambs…instead I peered out and saw a tabby cat laying on its side. Fur, shit, blood and piss were all over the front stoop and there’s our lovable local dickhead Bruce pacing like a lion. I slowly opened the door, hoping to rescued the cat when it took off. The following is no exaggeration.

Like straight out of kitty Braveheart, our Robert de Bruce slowly turned and looked at me. He had streaks of blood on both sides of his face like he dipped his kitty paws into his enemy’s blood and used it for war paint. He then growled, made a weird cat kill sound and leapt into the darkness after that poor little tabby.

Bruce returned this morning. Looking like Mike Tyson aka beat the fuck up. He was gritty dirty and of course snuggly. He was Bruce with a few more scars.

Bruce never apologizes for who he is. He’s a take me as I am kinda fella. Too many times, I’ve found myself apologizing for my feelings or instincts that are only natural. I feel guilt for things that I simply can’t help but feel or say. I’ve had my ass kicked and have the scars to prove it, inside and out. I’m a pain. Lash out with sharp claws and words when I’m hurt. I hide my wounds and pain most days. Feral little human. Untrainable and slightly psychotic. But this is who I am. I can’t change me anymore than Bruce can change his beautiful stripes. And slowly, I’m finding those scars that I hide more and more beautiful everyday.