A few days ago, Kenny put the kitten in the oven and scared the fucking hell out of him.
We know at whom’s doorstep the blame shall be laid when the kitten is in years of therapy.
You probably need a few more details to the whole “kitten in the oven” sentence, huh, Reader.
It’s not quite as bad as it sounds. Don’t call the APL.
My Mister was showing me how these new oven rack protector thingies (from the makers of the OveGlove) wrap around the front of the baking racks to protect you from burns whilst getting things in and out of the oven.
Curiousity, thy name is Kitty.
He peered in. And then jumped in the not-on/don’t-be-silly/we-don’t-really-cook-here oven to check it out.
And then My Mister said, “hahah, hahah let’s close the door!” And I said, “hahah, hahah, okay!”
And all manner of crazy cat hell broke loose.
He wasn’t in the shut-the-door-oven for 2 seconds. Not even.
And when we opened it, he hopped out so fast, and then hopped down the hallway to the bedroom, with his tail tucked between his legs, literally hopping like a bunny rabbit.
We thought he’d gotten something stuck in the door, but he was just scared.
We flew into action. Scooped him up with a body smash of love, all the while I was shouting, “We need to Eternal Sunshine his mind, quick!!” And we picked up his string and engaged him in some romps.
He was half-hearted at first, but then got into the game. Thank goodness. We continued to apologize and smother him in affection for several days after. I mean, more smothering than normal. On a normal day he gets quite a bit of smothering attention.
My Mister said that yesterday the kitty jumped on the stove. As if to say, “Fuck You, Stove! I fear you not! Nobody Puts Baby in the Oven!” It was the first time he’s really paid any attention to the stove since the Incident of 2012.
I think he’ll recover. But if not, we know what the trigger point was if he ends up pooping all over the floor one day in retribution.