(no subject)
Buddy brought me some mice when I got home twenty minutes ago.
Dead mice, of course, with deep teeth marks; one with its insides slowly migrating from the mouse cadaver to the pavement. So, I just stroke Buddy's sweet head and scratch his ears; hey, It's the thought that counts. Hold open the door for him, so he can trot inside, content. And, when he's not looking, salvage the humility of the pair left to sink into themselves on the stoop. Drop them into the trashcan just behind the house.
The bird I thought I saved from Buddy's wrath this morning is still situated on the lawn, in apparent fear. My attempt at heroism had failed. Spare the bird's humility as well.
I want a mouse. A little mouse, but I know Buddy would pounce onto its cage, manuever his way into it, and slaughter it, not in hostility, but to please. Himself? Us? Me? Who knows. Who cares.
Buddy is a great feline; he plays fetch with me, sleeps with me without taking too much space, greets me when I open my driver's-side door, with tiny creatures dead on the driveway. Congratulating him on his latest massacre is called for, right? Being pround to be the recipient of such accolades is flattering, right?
Right?
Right?
No.
I miss a lot of people. At the same time, I don't miss anyone. Or anything.
Take that back; I miss mornings. Early mornings.