Before me, Baby Brother appears with blood dripping from his face and hands.
He cries and holds his arms out for comfort.
My brain is unable to process the scene, it is temporarily out of service and off-line.
“Little Legs, what happened?”
I demand an explanation from the most likely guilty culprit. I assume, wrongly, that Little Legs smashed his brother in the face with something heavy.
“Bad tat,” Baby Brother says between sobs.
He speaks for himself now.
“Tat scratched me hard.”
Little Legs casually walks into the kitchen where his brother’s blood continues to drip and spill to the floor.
“The cat did it, not me,” he says with a shrug.
Apparently, he has become a cool-guy teenager at age four.
Next, the cat slinks into the room, sits and disinterestedly watches the humans of the house.
I gather myself and with a deep breath step into action, wiping the blood from my son’s face revealing a deep slice between his lip and nose.
We don’t need an ambulance, but this is beyond the power of a glob of Neosporin and a Paw-Patrol band-aid to treat.
I call Daddy Longlegs for help locating the nearest urgent care with the shortest wait time and begin the process of peeling the bloody mess of a shirt from the still crying Baby Brother, getting socks and shoes on both boys and heading out the door for Destinations Unknown.
How did it all turn out?
Baby Brother got two stitches and now has a terrific scar about which he can brag of a knife fight or cat attack when he is older. His brother got a lollipop for being so patient. And the cat, well, she got a new home. Somewhere far away between here and there.