Only an hour ago, Nutmeg was curled up next to me. She was almost cliche; a picturesque sleeping cat.
But then the witching hour struck.
The witching hour is every night between 9 and 10, and it is not a joke. Without warning she turns on me and sinks her teeth gently into my leg. I yelp and try to push her off, but she attaches herself to my arm in a frenzy of scratching and nibbling. I get my feet out of the way. There is no hope of restraining such madness. A whirlwind of nails and teeth, she leaps around, clawing and biting everything she stumbles across. No piece of string is safe. No plastic remains unchewed.
After the inital hysteria, the bloodlust fades from her eyes. Now she has realized her strength. She wanders the house meowing, as if calling for a challenger to face her. My feet are an easy target, so I keep them covered. Soon the meows become plaintive as she realizes there is no challenger. She is unmatched, and alone.
Sullenly, she will crouch in some corner, staring pensively across the middle distance. I look up cautiously. The silence is a false reprieve. I do not yet dare uncover my feet lest the madness strike once again.
She finishes her sullen pondering and rises to eat a few pieces of kibble. It will seem like the mania is wearing off. Do not trust this, my friends. The witching hour is still upon us. Nutmeg, fierce warrior demon of the night, is not yet sated. She waits her moment to strike. A moment when I rise from my desk to get a glass of water.
I still have the scars.
Never trust a cat in the witching hour. You must only let down your guard when she has worn herself out and is once again asleep. Then you might think to yourself "Look at this harmless fluffy creature. How cute and innocent." And that may very well be true.
But it is all a lie when the witching hour strikes.