I have three major pets, all of whom are pretty much useless as guardians of hearth and home. The dog will bark at nothing, but not at something. And he occasionally mouses, but mostly he just cleans up after the cats and then vomits.
The gray cat, will hunt the orange cat, and ocasionally the dog. The last time she found a mouse in the house, she brought it to the living room to show us how perfectly it coordinated with her fur, and then let it escape. It ran into #2 son’s backpack, as we were getting ready for school, and I had to take the whole thing out to dump it in the yard.
The books pencils and crayons came out fine, but the mouse decide to stick with the bag, hanging on with one little mousy hand and crying “Sweet Jesus, don’t let her eat me! I DON’T WANT TO GO THAT WAY!”
The orange cat makes up for both of them. Mohawk is my cat, whether I like it or not. He was feral for his first year, before he adopted me. He thinks nothing says, “I love you, Mom,” like a corpse on the porch.
He can’t be troubled to stay in the house at night and hunt in the kitchen or the basement. He roams the neighborhood till the wee hours, and then brings whatever he can find back to lay on the steps for my breakfast. If we are having company, he takes a head count and returns with the barn cat equivalent of a dozen doughnuts: a mouse apiece.
He will also provide the odd song bird, squirrel, chipmunk, or rabbit. But last week, he outdid himself.
I was walking past the front door and saw Mohawk hop off the porch. And I heard the last desperate squeak of something seeing its last sunrise.
I ignored it.
But when I came out later, he’d left me a gift.
It was a chipmunk.
An odd chipmunk.
A little too long.
Too brown. Since when have chipmunks been chocolate brown with white stomachs? And cute little white toes.
And sharp pointy teeth.
What the hell? This rodent had a mouth full of fangs. This rodent wasn’t a rodent.
My stupid cat had killed something carnivorous. So much for getting rid of the mice. He was getting rid of the competition.
I did what anyone would do. I grabbed the camera which had our vacation pictures in it, and went out on the porch to snap photos of a dead weasel.
A least weasel, to be exact. It’s either that or a very small ermine. If he’s collecting ermine, I’m sending him back out about a hundred and fifty more times. I don’t think there’s anything morally wrong with a fur coat if it dies of semi-natural causes.