I know you love us. You give us presents. A little lick on the hand, a toy left at the door when we come home, a snuggly purr on the couch.
But this time, you really outdid yourselves. This time, you gave us a mouse. A dead mouse.
On our bed.
Of course I didn’t take a picture, which you were probably hoping for as a sort of permanent tribute to your victory. That would have required sustained proximity, and besides, I am incapable of recognizing any Kodak moment when I’m too busy shrieking and flailing around like I’ve just seen a disgusting dead rodent on my pintuck comforter.
Oh wait. I HAD just seen a disgusting dead rodent on my pintuck comforter.
If your dad hadn’t been home to dispose of the carcass, I probably would have slept on the couch.
This is the second murdered rodent you’ve left for us. I’m beginning to think that when we aren’t around, you morph into fire-breathing, homicidal demons.
Please work on that. I can’t have my naively-ignorant-of-all-natural-cat-instincts view of my angelic babies tainted by such events.