Shucks Rufus. Rufus is on the porch right now. He's keeping a watchful eye over the street below. Yesterday, my little border terrier got in a fight with a neighborhood cat. I heard the menacing sounds and rushed out to the little alcove between the houses. To my surprise the cat wouldn't give up. It had a clear way out, but decided to stay and fight. Rufus didn't quite seem to know what to do with it. He'd corner it, start barking and then the cat would pounce again. In the fury, I could see the that black cat's paws flying and teeth glimmering. Yelling at them didn't seem to quell the intensity, so I marched in and grabbed Rufus by the collar. The cat held it's ground, hissing away as we departed.
Still in a daze from his afternoon nap, my father strolled into the back room wearing his bathrobe. I explained the situation, and that the cat was gone by that point. Rufus sneezed and started to shake, presumably trying to rid himself of the cat's odor. This resulted in blood being splattered all over the room. Papa applied paper towel to the cut on the dog's floppy ear, as I began cleaning the small pools of blood on the floor. The bleeding soon stopped, pop's went back to bed and I started on the walls.
There's something slightly taboo about cleaning blood off vertical surfaces. I knew we'd done nothing wrong, but it seemed imperative that all the evidence disappear. I started to scrub harder. Rufus was obviously shaken by the experience. He starred intently out the window. Upon finishing the cleanup, I noticed some blood had splattered on the bookcase. I guess it would be impossible to track down every little droplet. A certain air of mystery now surrounded those books. Christened with dog blood, part of family history.