This morning, G and I were getting dressed in our respective bathrooms when I heard her bathroom door bang shut in an odd way. Half a second later, Catherine came streaking into my bedroom and dived under my bed. A moment after that, in came G with a guilty look on her face.
"DID YOU SLAM THE CAT IN THE BATHROOM DOOR?" I asked in my most terrible mom-voice.
"Yes," said G, hanging her head.
"Oh, dear God. Why did you do that?"
"It was an accident! I wanted her to stay in there with me!"
"Where did the door hit her?" I asked, hoping it was going to be the shoulders or the tail or something.
"On the sides of her," said G.
I got down and peered under the bed, where Catherine was crouching with her fur all fluffed up. She wouldn't come out, so I reached in and felt along her sides, looking for broken ribs or a ruptured spleen or whatever else might happen to a cat that had been shut in a door. She didn't yowl or flinch, her breathing was fine, and she wasn't coughing up blood or anything dire like that -- she just looked scared and pissed off. I tried dragging her favorite toys along the floor in a tantalizing fashion, and she stretched out a paw to bat at them, but still wouldn't come out.
At last I had to give up and leave her there so I could take G to school and go to work for my morning meetings, which I sat through while tormented with horrible fantasies of poor Catherine expiring alone under the bed. But when I rushed home at lunch to check on her, she had come out and was eating, washing and walking around normally, and by the time I left again, she was beating up on Malcolm as usual. I guess she must have shot the gap as the door closed, so it was a glancing blow instead of a full-on slam. I've told G at least a hundred times not to slam doors or shut the cats up in rooms they want to leave, and she always ignores me, but she was awfully upset when she thought she'd hurt Catherine. Maybe this will have a salutary effect on her.
As for Catherine, she seems to have forgotten all about the incident and is asleep at my feet right now, while Malcolm the Pest wanders around gnawing on things. Surely he's too old to be teething?