I am standing in my front porch, debating with myself as to which type of tape to use to affix the paper Frankenstein and spider decorations. I see a black cat in my front yard. Awww, I think, how appropriate for Halloween. Then I remember. I don’t HAVE a cat. This is a stray. A stray that will undoubtedly poop in my yard. Or find some heretofore undetected crawl space under my house and make himself at home. He has to go.
I take a step towards the door. Generally, the creaking of floorboards is enough to scare off a skittish stray. But not this guy. Cool as a cucumber. I turn the doorknob. Still nothing. I decide this is going to take some action. He needs to be scared out of my yard. So I whip open the door as fast as I can. Right into my forehead. I could not have hit anyone harder if I had lined them up while they were unconscious, then used every ounce of strength I had.
I make some weird sound, half cry, half surprised yelp. Through my one functioning eye, I see that all this commotion has only moved him slightly. His right eye is all messed up. He has a limp. Poor little bugger is all sick. I sit on the front step, conceding defeat, holding onto my now Worf-like forehead. He ambles down my path. He stops at the gate, and gives me a look that says, “Really? That was the best way you could come up with to deal with the situation? Did that make you feel better?” Then he walks on down the block.