Siberious Tigerous (or something like it) is the Latin or scientific name for a Siberian Tiger. They are fierce animals with great hunting skills. Big, very powerful, and not to be underestimated.
Feline domesticus is the Latin name for the house cat. Supposedly, they are exact miniatures of their Siberian cousins. They have the same brute force but only weight 6-12 pounds as opposed to a couple thousand, or what ever it is a Tiger weighs. It's a cute thought but beyond the "that's nice", I've never gave it much thought.
Some time ago we found that we had attracted and "caught" a stray cat in our storage-filled basement. It took us a couple of weeks to figure it out. Our cat, although portly, could not be eating as much food as he appeared to be eating. Finally one night with a flashlight, the extra cat was spotted for a nanosecond as it ducked behind a stack of storage boxes- still packed from when we last moved...8 1/2 years ago.
The hunt was on. I methodically moved boxes, eliminating the hiding spots. Section by section, I was cornering my prey. After many boxes, bags of clothes, and defunct appliances- I had the target in site. It was a nothing cat- the only fat on it's body obviously coming form the number of meals he had stolen from the cat dish during its short stay at our place.
I got down on my belly and scooted over to the storage rack and then with my own "quick as a cat" reflexes- I snagged that kitty and pulled it out from under the shelf.
It was at this point that the feline domesticus transformed into the siberious tigerous that lurked within. It lit into me like it had planned it all along and I was the dumb prey that had wandered into the hunters trap. Fangs, fur and claws are all I saw. It chew up one hand and down the other arm like it was eating corn on the cob.
One of my boys later recounted that he knew I was in trouble and it must of really hurt due to all the bad words I was using and the volume at which I was using them.
As I lay defeated (and crying) my wife was able to get a door open and direct the cat, who was doing it victory march, up and out of the basement. I am sure he is somewhere telling his friends all about the big fat guy he tore up after crashing his crib.
Me? I ended up going to the late night clinic, receiving antibiotics and other such medications through the end of a needle. I would have to later get a number of rabies shots as well- seeing how I could not produce the cat for examination. I'm not sure what hurt more- the bites and shots or having to admit I was in the ER because of some little kitty.
To this day, I wear the scars of my encounter, I will not go down into the basement alone, and I talk to my cat nicely- calling him "Sir".
Ask a man a question, he'll give you an answer; Give that man a Blog and he'll spew for the rest of his life.
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