Adventures of The Mighty Hunter
Another personal tidbit: I am a cat person. At the moment there are three felines of various sizes, intelligences and proclivities vying for the patch of sunlight on my kitchen floor:
- A fat but fluffy gray tabby who doesn't go out (because when he does he reverts to a feral state)
- A gray short-hair with more than a little Russian Blue in him, who goes out once in a while to check things out, and who has no facial expression whatsoever; so much so that he appears to have received incompetent Botox injections (therefore hereinafter referred to as "Botox Cat" or BC)
- An orange tabby -- spittin' image of 9-Lives' Morris -- who rules the neighborhood, to whom I refer as The Mighty Hunter (TMH.)
Imagine my surprise -- mingled with dismay (I like squirrels) and pride (atta boy!) -- a bit later when my son pointed out what was happening on the front porch: BC was just sitting there watching as TMH grabbed a dead squirrel in his mouth, threw it upward, then batted at it with his front paws, playing with it. My son was laughing as he commented, "It looks like TMH is teaching BC how to kill a squirrel!" Indeed it did. TMH had killed a squirrel! Impressive, even for one who regularly comes bearing gifts of small former rodents. The thought later occurred to me that perhaps the squirrel had been preoccupied keeping BC in view, so TMH ambushed it while it wasn't looking. I don't give BC credit for enough intelligence to call it "teamwork", but it seemed like a great strategy for TMH.
I picked it up gingerly by the tail and tossed it a few feet onto the lawn, just to get if off the front walkway, intending to come back later and dispose of it.
This morning my son and I went out for breakfast. We arrived home to find the lawn service finishing up (blowing away rubbish; the lawn was already mowed.) My heart sank as I rolled down the window and asked the guy, "You wouldn't happen to have picked up the dead squirrel in the middle of the lawn before you mowed, did you?" His blank expression conveyed ignorance of either the presence of a dead squirrel in the middle of the lawn, or of English.
My son got out of the car and walked over to the last known position of the squirrel carcass. I called out, "Is it still in one piece?" or was the lawn covered with tiny shreds of squirrel, I refrained from adding aloud. He laughed (always a bad sign from a teenager in this context) and replied, "Sort of." I went over to check it out for myself, and was greeted with a sight that I shall refrain from describing, for the sake of those who may be eating or drinking, have recently done so, or plan to in the near future. Suffice it to say that garden utensils will now be required to effect removal.
All hail The Mighty Hunter.
Update: my step-daughter has correctly pointed out that BC more closely resembles the British Blue Shorthair rather than the Russian variety. In fact, this could be his brother. Also, TMH presented us with a tiny former mouse the next morning. (Dessert?)