A Cautionary Tail
Dexter Mouse III, of the long-established Mouse family, considered himself a Renaissance mouse. He was well-read and -spoken, and raised his 25 children, half-children, and stepchlidren in the way he had been raised: with loving absentia. That being said, he was not one of those baby-eating mice -- no sir! That sort of thing was for lesser mice, the kind who lived in Old Car Parts down the road. No, Dexter was a mouse of the Under the Picnic Table clan, which was widely regarded as the highest on the mouse evolutionary ladder, at least in the world of House And Surrounding Gardens.
One particular day, not a special day for any reason, just a nice warm day, Dexter stood on his front porch and surveyed his lands with satisfaction. He was looking forward to a glass of brandy and the newspaper in his well-appointed study, but when he felt the gentle zephyr brush his whiskers, he thought it may be time for a walk.
Five minutes later, he was a smear of blood and a pile of assorted parts -- most of them missing -- on the floor of my dad's office.
Then my cat was apparently worn out, because he slept the entire day. Like he did after he killed the mouse yesterday, and the day before, etc. A furry grey killing machine, he is.
One particular day, not a special day for any reason, just a nice warm day, Dexter stood on his front porch and surveyed his lands with satisfaction. He was looking forward to a glass of brandy and the newspaper in his well-appointed study, but when he felt the gentle zephyr brush his whiskers, he thought it may be time for a walk.
Five minutes later, he was a smear of blood and a pile of assorted parts -- most of them missing -- on the floor of my dad's office.
Then my cat was apparently worn out, because he slept the entire day. Like he did after he killed the mouse yesterday, and the day before, etc. A furry grey killing machine, he is.