My
cat Abby is a stone-cold killer.
Her sister Annie is a sleepy, snuggly, little
cat who would rather stay indoors and take a nap in an available lap. Abby is made of sterner stuff. Annie likes
cat food, thank you very much, served at regular intervals. Abby likes---how
shall I put this delicately? Abby likes her food fresh.
Abby
often brings me the results of her labors. Whether as homage to ‘She Who Runs
the Can Opener’, as a sign of her willingness to share, as a comment on my
ability to feed myself-- I can’t really say. Perhaps she just wants to be given
her due praise—“Who’s a good Kitty? You are!”
Sometimes
I think she does it to punk me. I’ll hear her making her particular yowl of
success and I open the door, readying myself to praise her and admire the
corpse—I mean CATCH. Only to find out that dinner isn’t currently CAUGHT nor
ready to be served, it just ran across my foot and hid in the hall closet. Abby
saunters in, very pleased with herself, and proceeds to take a nap, secure in
the knowledge that there will be entertainment later.
 |
| Duck, duck GROUSE |
I’ve
learned to only open the door a crack while simultaneously blocking said crack
with an object that is not my foot. I can peer cautiously out and see the
current state of ---let’s call it freshness—before I commit to swinging the
door wide to see what’s on the menu. Field Mouse? Shrew? Perhaps an unfortunate
songbird?
I
cautiously opened the door last week to the sight of Abby proudly seated next
to---OH DEAR HEAVENS WHAT IS THAT?! Or,
rather, what WAS that?
A
grouse, apparently. Nearly as big as Abby. She was quite proud of herself and
rightfully so. And the next time I see her out slow-stalking the elk herd--- I
might not laugh.
