5:37 p.m. - 2023-07-24
l'ill killer
Going on a month of triple-digit highs here. The mouser just sleeps in the shade under the truck all day, and I'm tempted to join her. She's out wilding after dark though apparently; 'cause I heard her familiar, staccato, “fresh kill” meows at my back door around 3 AM.
She always brings these trophies home, whereupon they're summarily reviewed; with rats and mice eliciting effusive pets and praises. Should I be presented with a lizard, which for some reason she tends to deliver alive, I'll try to distract her while I encourage his scaly getaway. As for the dead birds, well...no praise obviously, just a shrug and a head-shake. I mean, predators gonna predate right? (Unless of course it's a Cardinal, then she gets a treat...because those guys are dicks.) Regardless of my response though, she purrs and preens: “See Papi? Who's out all night hustlin'? Earnin' that kibble...”
(Her dead-vermin brags are Baby I Got Your Money meows, basically.)
Anyway, after I politely decline my helping of la petite carcasse (had a heavy breakfast, you go ahead), she'll meow again and set in. It's terrifying. I watched once as she chewed her way through a mouse; morbidly curious about the process, which leaves the same scant forensic evidence every time: a nose (with whiskers attached), offals (unpunctured and removed w/surgical precision), and a tail. Everything else is consumed, bones, pelt...tiny pink feet, dreams of becoming a famous French chef, all of it. And to think that there are people (some on this very website) who not only let these stealthy savages sleep in the house, but on the same bed? I mean, even if there isn't an infant around to suck the breath out of, the sound of tiny cat-jaws crunching through the skull of a barn-rat should make any sane person consider otherwise.
I didn't get out of bed to check after she kill-mewed last night, though. Just groggily recognized that she'd caught something, fell back asleep, and forgot all about it. Which is why I was surprised to see the offals when I opened the door this morning. Well, one reason I was surprised...because while they were intact and fastidiously removed as usual, they were also four-to-five times the size of a field mouse's. The reason for this became apparent when I saw the other remains, no nose and whiskers this time, but four complete legs, and a tail. A cotton tail.
A few years ago I was out walking-fence up on the ridge, almost a mile from the house, when I ran into her. She was padding out from the brush with a baby rabbit clutched in her jaws, and we both stopped-still with surprise; neither having suspected the other's range extended this far. We stared motionless for a minute before she turned and cat-trotted back into the brush; she wasn't sharing this one. But it's cool...we give each other space. It's a big reason our relationship works, to be honest. Also the reason I don't have a dog. Because while I love dogs, they get clingy...so I love 'em the same way I love kids: living in someone else's house.
She's tiny btw, the mouser. Especially in summertime, when she loses her appetite (for kibble anyway). I was gonna pick her up to ball-park a weight for y'all, but remembered she was full of rabbit so, yeah. Not sure how she put it all away...I mean, there isn't that much “to” a rabbit, meat-wise; but the pelt alone seems like a lot for one sitting, add to that the ears, the big brown eyes, buck-teeth etc? Also, while their bones are thin and light, there's still the matter of the skull to account for...that's a lot of calcium to crunch through; encasing what must be the teeniest possible bite of brain (an amuse-bouche, if you will?). 'Cause it's just a two-pole switch, right? Rabbit brain? Flee or fuck...they march (hop) right next to chickens in God's glorious simpleton/snack parade.
(OK, even before I post this I can sense one of my seven readers* getting angry...despite the fact that this particular reader quarters, feeds and spoils a small army of the same furry murderers I've been describing here. Irony, and such.)
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Anyway, the plot would thicken later. Because since I hadn't had my coffee yet, and because it was the last day of July's exciting and suspenseful Basho (do not get into an esoteric sumo aside here Ernst), I left the rabbit remains be for the time being. But after the tournament's dramatic, emotional and consequence-laden ending (oh man do I want to write about sumo) I opened the door to find the legs were gone!One suspect sprang immediately to mind; a feral tom who's somehow made his way out here to the country. I've caught him in the act of wolfing down my own cat's breakfast before, and because he somehow gets away with it unscathed/unscratched/unpunished I've begun referring to him as “your boyfriend”, which she hates. That said: I've twice responded to a yard commotion to find her with her back arched and tail blown-out, growling a guttural battle-threat as he stands frozen. And I've watched as the growls escalated to hisses and yowls, but I've never seen them fight...they just stand there face-to-face, almost touching noses? Love is strange.
Whatever. She was spayed as a kitten...so adjust your expectations accordingly, my dude. And have her home by eleven.
*Seven readers now!! Does this mean...I'm an “influencer”?
