That darn cat

When I got him as a kitten, I repeated the mantra "he's just a kitten, I do love him" more times than I care to admit.  Now, more than two years later, I find myself in a somewhat similar state of mind.  He is no longer a kitten, or anything that resembles a cute fist sized ball of fluff.  He's still as fuzzy and fluffy - just 18 pounds instead of 3.  But I think he still thinks he is a kitten.

Today, per norm, all three cats were ripping around the duplex chasing each other up and around, over and under.  Nothing really new or exciting, but usually entertaining.  I'm sitting in the middle of the couch, playing a computer game, when all 18 pounds of furball come flying up over the laptop arm (attached to the back of the couch) and... well, at least he tried... onto the windowsill.

Unfortunately the windowsill is about three inches deep (I've heard him hit his head before many times when he tries to jump onto it) which is about as deep as his front paws.  Don't believe me?  I'll try to find the picture of one kitten paw taking up the entire top of a pop can.  Also unfortunately, for me, the cushion at the back of me had been sliding down.  This made the large tube behind my head (part of the cathouse we moved - long story) unstable.

He hits the window with his head and grabs for purchase on the cat tube. 

With his back claws.

Slips.

I've now got two stitches on my neck and a multitude of bandages down the left side of my back.

I also found out what makes Frank faint.  The guy who can step on a nail, pull it out and go back to work like nothing is amiss.  The guy who says nonchalantly "I think I broke my thumb again" as he comes home from work.  The guy who is brought to his knees and to the point of fainting seeing me in pain.

And what is the monster behind the whole ordeal doing?  Sleeping on top of the sheepskin as if it's just like any other day.

I love him.  I really, really do.