Dogs Versus Cats

I have a small scar under my left eye. I got it Christmas Eve in the year of our Lord 2004 when I was at my then-boyfriend's parent's house. Nikita, a young dog then, was also with me. She had never seen a cat before and she was obsessed with the smaller four-legged and furry house pet.

Matt stood in the door jamb holding the cat protectively, more for the cat's comfort than from the likes of Nikita: Nikita doesn't have an evil inkling in her 50-pound Husky frame. Nikita raised her nose straight in the air, a la Snoopy, trying to drink more of the cat's scent. I crossed the room and reached down to grab her leather Coach collar to hustle her from the cat's space when the cat went all Kitty Ali on me and attacked my face.

I dropped Nikita's collar and shielded myself; the dog fled the scene of the crime on her own. I felt blood run down my face, then my fingers, and then my arms without even having to look. Matt's father ushered me to the kitchen sink where I dumped the blood I cupped in my hands. I held my face under the faucet until the water ran clear again. It seemed to take forever. The cat had missed my eyeball by less than half an inch and left an two-inch long laceration across my face.

I've never had anyone comment on my scar—it faded into a quiet indentation beneath my lashes—but I notice it every morning when I put on mascara. Every time I spy it, I feel comforted. I have an outward scar to reflect and validate the inward pain resulting from that relationship. A battle wound.

It makes me wish every one of my ex-boyfriend's parents owned cats.