Attempted felinicide

My husband has only two faults: he doesn't like onions, and he is not a cat lover. I can forgive the first foible, but had I known about his dislike for felines before that uber-cold day in December 18 years ago, it might have been a deal breaker.

I had no idea how deep his dislike for my cat ran until last night I was in the kitchen cooking dinner, and I heard a faint cougar-like scream. Just kidding -- I didn't hear it, because I had the Christmas music turned up too loud. But Susan, who was reclining on the living room couch in her sickish state, heard it. Then SUDDENLY! Tom burst through the front door and sprinted through the kitchen and threw open the door to the garage. And then I saw it: my cat's hindquarters under the closed garage door!!!!

She writhed and screamed pitifully as he leapt down the garage steps and ran to yank on the emergency door release. He lifted the door up. And the cat ran away, leaving desperate scrambling tracks in the newly fallen snow.

Half an hour later she appeared at the back door, begging to come in. I picked her up cooed and kissed her and massaged her spine looking for tenderness or bruising, but she acted like nothing had happened. So far, so good.

Update: late last night I heard an odd tinkling coming from the living room. So I looked through the doorway and what did I see?

♫ Four shoes on the floor
Three dirty socks
Two newspapers
And a Cat in the Christmas tree. ♫♪

I think she's gonna be just fine.