Poor kittykat.

He thought he was going to be the heavyweight champeeeen of the world.

Turns out, he’s not even a contender.

Sinatra got his ass good and whipped by Tuxedo.

Confidence will only take you so far when it’s your first fight and you pick on someone twice your size.

He’s a changed cat.

No pouncing last night.

No playing with toys.

No asking out.

He hid and didn’t even want to be held, petted or spoiled.

He did finally crawl up onto the bed and sleep at my feet sometime during the night.

He was still quite subdued this morning.

And hypervigilant. He kept staring out the door without going near it and was spooked by every small noise. The fridge compressor started up while he was standing in front of it and it made him jump and move away.

I’ve tried to be soothing and reassuring, but the boy is by gosh rattled by the experience.

In polite terms, he’s had his paradigm shifted. In street talk, he got his ass whipped good.

I may have to start sharing my anti-depressants with my cat.

Or not.