Charlie had always been a tough old cat, even when a kitten, and sometimes a real son of a bitch. And she had always admired him for that. He had been with her for decades, chased away bad boyfriends (except the one she had married), comforted her in moments of grief, a constant companion. Grumpy and particular, but always reliable. Until he became old and sick, seemed to become aware of his impending mortality, and had started spraying to mark his displeasure with things. Anything, really: Food that wasn’t up to his ever increasing standards, meals that were delivered too late, an insufficient amount of affection. Any perceived slight and it resulted on him pissing on something, usually the afghan her grandmother had left her.
Which is fine, she can handle it, he had been there for her through the toughest times. But then comes the day that she’s installing the new wood floors, getting the place ready to sell because her husband had decided (shortly after they discovered she’s pregnant) that he needs to, nay must, move to Nashville to pursue his musical career. Hammering a stubborn board into place, Charlie walks right up and sprays her, covering her in the liquid of a sick cat that reminds her of bong water and death. Without thinking, she swings the hammer, the young Charlie having been fast enough to dodge, but this is old Charlie. He screeches and scratches her and the next time she brings the hammer down she gets a face full of blood.