Gift of love

Google image (really!)

This morning, I found a dead mouse on my doorstep, laid out, belly up, like a virginal offering to a god.  It is, actually.  Well, I don't know about the virginal thing (probably not, since this mouse was older than the usual mating age of mice, which is about fifteen minutes), but is was an offering to a god.  My cat's god, that is.  Me.  (I am distorting reality here.  My husband is really her god, but he is gone and I now control the food and faucets, so she is sucking up.)

Anyway, it thrilled me.  Not because I get all gooey over dead and murdered rodents, but because our old lady still hunts.  And kills.  She hasn't lost her touch.  She used to hunt daily, piling up the results at our door like a daily delivery service.  For the past few years, though, she mostly rests. So this burst of activity thrills me.

I think she feels vulnerable, with George out of town.  She and I have an uneasy relationship, with George at it's center.  The cat pulls outrageous stuff that makes me crazy and sends flying me to the yellow pages to look up 'Animal Shelters' or 'Taxidermy'.  And he defends her, or excuses her, or whatever. The end result is that he always sticks up for her.

But, now, Mama is in charge.  Welcome to the Big Blonde's Crib...  Uh-oh, suck up time.  Who says animals don't campaign?