High on my list of things that are not ideal:
1) Waking
up swollen with cat on my face
2) Stepping
in eviscerated bird carcass before I've had my coffee
3) Mopping
up blood stains and feathers before taking a shower
And yet, in an amazing harmonic convergence, all three occurred before eight o'clock this morning.
After yelping and flapping my hands repeatedly, Fauxhawk emerged from his sleep cocoon to dispose of the dead bird.
"Did you see the bathroom?" I hollered. "It's like a fucking ABATTOIR in there."
"I don't think that bird died peacefully," said Fauxhawk, surveying the streaks of blood and profusion of gray feathers scattered around the apartment. At least the cats had the decency to butcher and bleed the animal on the tile floor before bringing it into the living room to eat.
Meanwhile, the suspects looked on, non-plussed by the commotion.
"OK, guys," I said glaring at the cats. "Which of you has animal instincts?"
Neither cat raised his paw. Verne, the Fatty McCatty of the two, seemed an unlikely candidate for this sort of carnage, since his favorite activities are lying like a blob on the couch and meowing pathetically until he is airlifted onto various surfaces. Winking from a corneal ulcer, Roy pointedly ignored the interrogation, mocking my questions with his inside voice.
"Was it
you?" I asked Roy, who curled up in the sink, looked dainty and
pristine.
"Was it you?" I asked Verne, checking his whiskers for traces of bird pancreas. On cue, he yawned and spooned Fauxhawk, who was already fast asleep.
I don't know whether to be impressed or horrified. Kitties, if this is some kind of gift, may I suggest an alternative? I'd also be quite happy with this or this, should you opt for a less feathery offering.
image from here.
