Hey now, whoa there. Whoa.

When thumbs first sprang from the Small Man's flippers, thus ushering in the clutch-and-hurl chapter of this weird new world, I was thankfully and providentially immune to his graspiness. The Woman's hair, the Rodent's ears, the Man's chest-wisps all fell easy prey to Small Man's spit-slimey grapsers, but not Shmool.

For one thing, I prudently kept my distance, having observed the perimeter about the Small Man within which one was subject not only to his pinchery, but also to his cascades of viscous upheaval. The Man and the Woman, somewhat inexplicably, choose to remain within this zone almost without fail, thus taking the brunt of his daily fusillade and spending the better part of their new lives half-soaked. Darwin at work.

Even so, every now and then the Small Man would be brought close to me, usually because I happened to be in repose upon the giant purple cushion when the Woman lugged him over for another bizarre slurp-and-burp ritual. This was tolerable and permissible, as the Small Man had his mind elsewhere and seemed to have a natural understanding that the Shmool was not to be grabbed. Again, Darwin in action.

That has changed. Yesterday, while I dreamt serenely of drunken squirrels, I suddenly became aware that somthing had me — by the face, no less. Emerging from my slumber, I realized that I was seeing the world through the pudgy little digits of Small Man's lemur-paw, now squarely affixed to my nose, fingers curling tighter under my chin, stumpy thumb pressing hard between my eyes.

For a moment, I was bewildered — where had this thing come from? And more importantly, what the hell was I going to do? One cannot bring one's fangs into play if one's mandible is clamped shut. I tried pulling back, but that was no help — Small Man was reaching over my head to grasp my face. Pulling back only drew me closer to him, thus improving the angle of his reach.

So I froze. Make like a lifeless pillow and see if he'll release me...

After a moment, his hand slipped back from my face onto the top of my head, and he started to gently stroke and scratch between my ears. I held as still as I could, eyes darting about the room, looking for an avenue of safe retreat (no luck there — the entire fortress is so littered with Small Man's equipment as to be practically unnavigable).

Carefully, slowly, almost imperceptibly, I craned my neck away from Small Man and angled my head an easy quarter turn, putting as much distance as I could between his plump pokers and my eye sockets. As he continued rubbing and kneading at the back of my head, I became aware of the voice of the Woman, laughing gently and encouraging the Small Man. “Good boy, good job, gentle, nice cat, nice kitty cat.”

No! Not nice kitty cat! Mean, tough, battle-hardened killer cat! This was wrong, all wrong!

I closed my eyes and concentrated on the rhythm of his clutching and releasing. If I could time it just right, I might be able to leap away between grasps. Steady, easy, steady...

And suddenly, the thing was gone. I chanced a quick glance over my shoulder to see the Small Man had returned to his slurping work, and taken his meat hook with him. With as much dignity as I could summon, I got up and took a couple measured steps away from the two of them, establishing a safety margin that apparently will now have to be maintained at all times. And good thing, too — for the Small Man then proceeded blurp his sustenance all over the Woman, the grisly cascade running down her side and pooling up in the warm divot where I had reclined not 5 seconds ago.

Another daring escape.