Rodents
LJ is still not sending me comment notifications. Most frustrating.
The cats have outdone themselves, in other news.
I got home from the gym yesterday with just enough time to hit the shower and leave again. As I emerged, hair still damp but otherwise clean and dressed, I made my way into the kitchen in order to feed the cats. That's when I noticed that Smudge and George were crouched on the dining room floor in the classic "we-have-done-something-unspeakably-gross-and-find-it-endlessly-fascinating" pose that cats get when they have, in fact, done something unspeakably gross and are now examining it to within an inch of its life.
I hadn't yet switched on the light, but I caught sight of a small mass on the floor in front of them and sighed, assuming it was yet more cat puke.
"Oh, cats," I lamented, "must you puke right before I have leave for -oh my God, that is not cat puke!"
No, definitely not cat puke. Instead, it was the still-twitching, eviscerated remains of apodemus mus (which is my best guess at the taxonomy for 'field mouse'). The poor mouse had obviously expired minutes before, if not even sooner, but the cats had been very thorough about killing it. There were viscera everywhere.
So I grabbed the phone, called work and told them I'd be a few minutes late, and spent the next few minutes fending off three very excited cats, who were using the corpse as a toy/snack. George in particular took great delight in hooking his paws into the thing and sending it sailing into the air in a graceful parabola.
The feline forces of entropy were very pleased with themselves, and were most put out that I was trying to take away the spoils of their victory. "But Mummy, we are MIGHTY HUNTERS! We killed it for you! Aren't you pleased?"
I mopped up, disinfected the floor with bleach (because, really, ew, and I didn't want to take chances about the sorts of things that a mutilated mouse might smear all over the floor), made a phone call to the land people to inform them that we might have a mouse problem, and a third call to my mother because I figured she'd get a kick out of it.
I then went and had a delightful time horrifying everyone at the office with the overly-detailed account of how I'd spent the last twenty minutes.
I still don't know where the mouse came from, but earlier in the day Smudge had been crouched by the dishwasher and staring intently at a tiny crack between it and the counter, alternately mewing softly and trying fruitlessly to stick his paw in there. Then he would turn to me, whine, and go back to what he was doing. At the time I guessed there was something in there, but of course there was no way to get to it, so I let it be. I'm assuming now that it was the mouse.
I just hope it was an isolated incident and that I'm not going to discover a nest somewhere. That would result in a killing spree on the part of the cats, and probably a visit from an exterminator, which I really don't want.
The cats have outdone themselves, in other news.
I got home from the gym yesterday with just enough time to hit the shower and leave again. As I emerged, hair still damp but otherwise clean and dressed, I made my way into the kitchen in order to feed the cats. That's when I noticed that Smudge and George were crouched on the dining room floor in the classic "we-have-done-something-unspeakably-gross-and-find-it-endlessly-fascinating" pose that cats get when they have, in fact, done something unspeakably gross and are now examining it to within an inch of its life.
I hadn't yet switched on the light, but I caught sight of a small mass on the floor in front of them and sighed, assuming it was yet more cat puke.
"Oh, cats," I lamented, "must you puke right before I have leave for -oh my God, that is not cat puke!"
No, definitely not cat puke. Instead, it was the still-twitching, eviscerated remains of apodemus mus (which is my best guess at the taxonomy for 'field mouse'). The poor mouse had obviously expired minutes before, if not even sooner, but the cats had been very thorough about killing it. There were viscera everywhere.
So I grabbed the phone, called work and told them I'd be a few minutes late, and spent the next few minutes fending off three very excited cats, who were using the corpse as a toy/snack. George in particular took great delight in hooking his paws into the thing and sending it sailing into the air in a graceful parabola.
The feline forces of entropy were very pleased with themselves, and were most put out that I was trying to take away the spoils of their victory. "But Mummy, we are MIGHTY HUNTERS! We killed it for you! Aren't you pleased?"
I mopped up, disinfected the floor with bleach (because, really, ew, and I didn't want to take chances about the sorts of things that a mutilated mouse might smear all over the floor), made a phone call to the land people to inform them that we might have a mouse problem, and a third call to my mother because I figured she'd get a kick out of it.
I then went and had a delightful time horrifying everyone at the office with the overly-detailed account of how I'd spent the last twenty minutes.
I still don't know where the mouse came from, but earlier in the day Smudge had been crouched by the dishwasher and staring intently at a tiny crack between it and the counter, alternately mewing softly and trying fruitlessly to stick his paw in there. Then he would turn to me, whine, and go back to what he was doing. At the time I guessed there was something in there, but of course there was no way to get to it, so I let it be. I'm assuming now that it was the mouse.
I just hope it was an isolated incident and that I'm not going to discover a nest somewhere. That would result in a killing spree on the part of the cats, and probably a visit from an exterminator, which I really don't want.