Because of the winter, my little sucker doesn't spend much time outside if it's too cold, but we've had a weird warm patch which not only brought out the cat, it also apparently set all the mice in the world free, making it like a pedophile set loose in an un-teachered elementary school.
I'll be honest, I liked kill-free life. No blood to clean up, no praising him for bringing dead things into the house even though all I really want to do is cry/throw up a little. Plus when he comes into bed at night to snuggle in my knee nook, I don't worry that my lower legs are about to get some sort of SARS from one of the wild birds he has just eaten while still alive, and then my legs will be the resurgence of SARS back into the world, and I'll be quarantined in some government manned hospital where eventually they erase me from all world data banks, cut off my legs, and make me hobble around on my nubs, occasionally strapping wheels to them like some horrible version of human roller skates except way less fun.
But apparently I can't have life my way all the time. Because this morning. . . . this morning James caught a mouse the size of a football then let it go, caught it again, let it go, caught it again, threw it up in the air for a little bit in some sort of horrible juggling show of death, let it go, caught it again, juggled it, I think laughed a little bit, and then continued on with this cycle for a good forty five minutes, until he got bored, the poor thing died, and James decided the party was over and it was time to eat.
But I swear to God he's so super cute and teeny you could never imagine him doing such a thing! Which I imagine is the trick of all the great serial killers, it's how they get through life - making everyone believe they're innocent and tender and cute and cuddly, and then when you're not looking - *BAM* - there's a slaughterhouse in your front yard.
I hope it snows.
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