It's a miracle that more people don't die from tripping over cats.
Tonight, my brother almost came to his death on his way to get some pizza from the kitchen counter. Carmel, apparently a ninja in a former life, materialized directly underfoot just as Adam was about to take a step. Fortunately, my brother conjured the essence of Chuck Norris for a moment and swept his foot cleanly over the head of the assassin cat, regaining his balance by grabbing hold of the aforementioned counter.
The fur upon the cat's head was tousled, however, leading me to believe that Adam's leg had actually made contact. When Carmel scampered away in a hurry, I further suspected foul play on my brother's part.
"You just roundhouse kicked the cat!" I screeched.
My brother hurriedly defended himself. "I roundhoused him with my pants!" I replayed the scene in my head, and this did indeed seem plausible. Adam's baggy pants could easily have trailed over the innocent head of my beloved kitten in the course of the evasive maneuvering.
"My hamper wouldn't give me these pants earlier," he continued, eager to displace the blame. "You know the holes in the side of the hamper? They caught the button and wouldn't let go..."
He paused, obviously scarred by the memory.
"I've been having trouble with these pants."
I forgot about the cat for a moment, pondering this fact.
Perhaps it is a miracle that more people don't die from wearing pants.