Sunday, November 14, 2010

Kittens And Unethical Questioning Tactics

This weekend, we were blessed enough to bring a fluffy little ball of pain into our home.

I speak of the evil that dare not speaketh in polite company.

Yes.  We got a kitten.

Cinder is a roly-poly ball of gray and white fluff, with huge hazel eyes and a penchant for playing with "the other kitty" she sees in the mirror behind our entertainment center.  But it has been a long time since I had a new kitten in my home.  I had forgotten the truth about kitten ownership. 

The truth about owning a kitten is that the first night is worse torture than water boarding an asthematic with the sweat wrung out of Michael Moore's windbreaker after a week in Brazil. 

You bring the kitten home, it is sweet as can be, and then it's time to go to bed.  And kitten does not want to go to bed.  So the battle begins.  First you believe the kitten is going to climb into bed with you.  Then you realize she has climbed into the bed so that she might rain terror and endless pain onto your bare arms and legs, because let's face it, you're getting into bed and not nearly as dressed as when you were wearing your jeans earlier that day.

The battle continues because you are tired of being clawed, and thus you put her down on the floor.  And she simply jumps up on the bed yet again.  You will repeat this seventeen times before you realize that you are much bigger than the kitten and can just use your foot to nudge her off the bed.  This is a huge mistake.

This would be the point in time when the kitten realizes that she has you right where she wants you.  Next is a pain so terrible that I would compare it to the time when I had surgery without anesthetic.  The kitten, that fiesty criminal mind that surpasses the sheer nefarious devilry of villains such as Mussolini, Hitler, and Pinochet now curls around your foot in a fluffy bear trap of claws and sharp teeth.  You have lost the war my friend, and your only choice is to sit with the covers over your head and hope to God that she doesn't find a way in until the Husband wakes up in the morning and gets her attention.

I believe that the government is going about interrogation in the wrong way.  Because the obvious way to get criminals to talk is not to tear out fingernails, or perform unspeakable acts upon their bodies that would make masochists cringe, but to put terrorists into rooms with kittens. 

I mean it.  Put a terrorist into a room with a few springy door stops, a bed, and make it rather warm, and then set a kitten on them when it's time to sleep.  They will slowly slip away from sanity and their convictions as they realize that the kitten, the small and fluffy infidel of the decadent lifestyle of the Western Hemisphere, has a will of pig iron and adorable whiskery vengeance.  From the jingly collar of doom to the sharp little dew claws of torment, these creatures are not to be moved.

Faith is pointless.

War is useless.

For they are kittens.  And they will devour your soul.

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