Cats

I have a small scar under my left eye. I got it Christmas Eve 2004, when I was at my then-boyfriend's Mark's parent's house. The Femme Fatale was with me and, having never seen a cat before, she was obsessed with their house cat. She wanted to smell him, and she wanted to play with him.

Mark stood in the door jamb holding the cat protectively, more for the cat's comfort than from the likes of the Femme Fatale: the Femme Fatale doesn't have an evil inkling in her 50-pound furry frame. I walked over to where she had her nose raised straight up in the air a la Snoopy, trying to get more of the cat's scent. I reached down to grab her black nylon collar to hustle her from the cat's space when the cat went all Kitty Ali on me and attacked my face.

I dropped the Femme Fatale's collar and shielded myself. The dog fled the scene on her own. I felt the blood run down my face, then my fingers and arms, without even having to look. Mark's dad ushered me to the kitchen sink where I dumped the blood cupped in my hands and held my face under the faucet until the water ran clear again. The cat had missed my eyeball by less than half an inch and left an two inch long incision 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 makeup. 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. And then I wish every one of my ex-boyfriend's parents owned cats.