Casualties of War
Really, it was cute at first. Ever see a cat box? Fanny could win a championship belt, she does it so well. But now I worry that her claws are going to get one of Nixon's buggy out eyes and leave me with a one-eyed, slobbering mess. How gross is that image?
And to really make matters worse, Fanny has decided to dedicate herself to me. Every where I go, Fanny goes to. Ever try to dig potatoes with a cat winding around your legs? Good times.
And then there are the presents she leaves me. Yummy. This morning I found a dead bird (minus a head) waiting for me on the deck. Yesterday, she brought me a mole. Or vole. Something large and hairy and weasel like. Yuck. Worse yet was the time she eagerly dropped a dead baby rabbit onto my lap. Picture me screaming like a pansy and running away like a thoroughbred out of a gate.
I've tried to convince her I still love her. I bring her treats, I cuddle, I even refer to Nixon as "that Stupid dog" when she's around. (But really dear internet, he is the World's Greatest Dog. Ever.) But my words must be ringing false to her.
Because she is still leaving disembowelled mice all over my sidewalk. Picture me struggling to carry the infant carrier (stuffed with the fattest baby this family has ever seen), a knapsack my sister likes to call a diaper bag, a thermos bag carrying a day's worth of formula and baby mush, the bouncy seat that my devil boy nephew insists on sitting in, my keys, and a cup of coffee, all at once. Because I don't want to have to make two trips to the car. So, as I pack all of this up my sidewalk, I have a cat winding around my legs. And then I hear a crunch.
You betcha. I managed to step on a mouse head. A few steps later, I will slip. Because I managed to step on another mouse's entrails. I may or may not make it to my house intact. I will however, be bringing in several mice worth of DNA on the bottom of my shoe. Every damn time.
Getting to and from my house now entails a game of hopscotch. Complete with mouse parts.
It's always fun and games around here.
I'm beginning to get a rather scary reputation around my neighborhood. Kids who come over to play with my kids are now referring to our place as "the one with all dead animals."
My sister carries a small stick to push the carcasses aside, so as not to step on them.
Meanwhile, my beloved Fanny continues to preen and beat the living day lights out of Nixon.
And so, I suppose I will have to resign myself to telling visitors to watch where they step.
You never know what that crunch will be.