I really should know better by now. I've had a live mouse land on my lap, and another one this time dead, naturally—cozily placed into my pillowcase. Yes, my sixty-dollar memory foam pillow, apparently now a five-star resort for the local rodent population. Bravo, Writer Cat. Truly, exceptional taste.
So when I finally spot the latest sacrificial corpse on the floor, what do I do? I say, "Good Kitty!." GENIUS! Absolutely brilliant! What does she do in return? She gets all pissy and launches it at my head like some tiny furry dead missile of chaos. Really, I should have bowed. Perhaps laid out a red carpet, too?
Oh, and yes, I know I am out of her precious canned food and treats. But here's a revolutionary idea: she can wait until tomorrow. Shocking idea, I know. Writer Cat's already a little chubby—my leg went numb earlier under her sprawling royal majesty—so clearly, a couple of days with out her sacrificial cans and crunchy snacks has not been the end of the world. Not that she seems to care about such trivial matters.
Yet... the audacity. The sheer unmitigated gall to turn a dead mouse into a projectile missile! I am apparently living with a feline menace who believes gravity is a polite suggestion, and I her humble servant, am merely collateral damage. She is not a normal cat! Not remotely! At this rate, I am getting a dog. Or a full hazmat suit!
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