Hey cats, you know what? When I'm walking down the hallway listening to some Phil Collins on my iPod (that's right, Phil Collins; don't lie, you know you love "In the Air Tonight") and you jump out of the bathroom and smack my leg, scaring my Genesis-loving ass all the way to Peter Gabriel's house, I don't like it. And I think I can speak for the dog on this one, too. I know you're a ferocious predator, and you're just reminding me that you and your retractable claws run things in this house, but honestly, is the subterfuge really neeeded? I'm fine with the smacking. You're a cat, you smack everything. It's the surprise that bothers me. The shock is just too much, especially with the slippery floors around the shower.
You don't see me jumping out from behind buildings to punch my closest friend. Except for that time he never returned my copy of Transporter 2. You have to draw the line somewhere. But otherwise, no one does this, and maybe that should be a clue to you kittens to cool it with the covert claws.
(flickr photo smack by nakae; http://www.flickr.com/photos/nakae/1223523545/)