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We have become the House of Doom
Jan. 17th, 2005 09:00 amIf you're a mouse, that is.
'Tis the season: it's been wet, it turned very cold. Wet and cold enough to chase the mice under the house upstairs, for a warmer (if more painful) death. That's what the cats are for.
Tuff is the old man of the house. He used to be hell on wheels when it came to chasing mice, but I think the wintery chill in the house has sunk into his bones. Baggings still moves surprisingly fast for a cat his age and girth, but is usually too lazy to bother with mice. Cat food sits quietly and conveniently in the bowl.
Fuzz, our soft, indolent-looking long-haired cat, has a new alter-ego: the Snapping Jaws of Death that snatch a mouse lightning-quick, before parading it up and down the house in front of the other cats, dangling and twitching out of either side of his mouth, then settling down in front of my chair to feast on his prey. Tail first, of course, then the squishy bits. Fuzz likes the squishy bits. He leaves his trophies in the middle of the walkway between the kitchen and bedroom, intact from the ribcage up.
We haven't figured out which cat is channeling the Queen of Hearts: Off with their heads! Off with their heads, indeed. That cat leaves his relics in the accustomed spot, in the walkway between the kitchen and bedroom, sans head. They take the heads, they always take the heads...
Ahem, sorry 'bout that. Where was I?
Oh, yes, watersports.
We discovered last night one of the cats is into watersports of murderous sort. By discovered the body of a small, dark grey mouse (typical field mouse) at the bottom of a sink full of dishwater last night. Death sometime between 7:30 and 10pm, based on when By finished putting dinner together and when we found the body, but neither of us were paying attention to the cats' movements. It is their house, after all. We're just the cleanup crew.
But I'd dearly love to know where my cats learned to sink a body.
'Tis the season: it's been wet, it turned very cold. Wet and cold enough to chase the mice under the house upstairs, for a warmer (if more painful) death. That's what the cats are for.
Tuff is the old man of the house. He used to be hell on wheels when it came to chasing mice, but I think the wintery chill in the house has sunk into his bones. Baggings still moves surprisingly fast for a cat his age and girth, but is usually too lazy to bother with mice. Cat food sits quietly and conveniently in the bowl.
Fuzz, our soft, indolent-looking long-haired cat, has a new alter-ego: the Snapping Jaws of Death that snatch a mouse lightning-quick, before parading it up and down the house in front of the other cats, dangling and twitching out of either side of his mouth, then settling down in front of my chair to feast on his prey. Tail first, of course, then the squishy bits. Fuzz likes the squishy bits. He leaves his trophies in the middle of the walkway between the kitchen and bedroom, intact from the ribcage up.
We haven't figured out which cat is channeling the Queen of Hearts: Off with their heads! Off with their heads, indeed. That cat leaves his relics in the accustomed spot, in the walkway between the kitchen and bedroom, sans head. They take the heads, they always take the heads...
Ahem, sorry 'bout that. Where was I?
Oh, yes, watersports.
We discovered last night one of the cats is into watersports of murderous sort. By discovered the body of a small, dark grey mouse (typical field mouse) at the bottom of a sink full of dishwater last night. Death sometime between 7:30 and 10pm, based on when By finished putting dinner together and when we found the body, but neither of us were paying attention to the cats' movements. It is their house, after all. We're just the cleanup crew.
But I'd dearly love to know where my cats learned to sink a body.
