Stalking Big Game

Earl the Cat is an indoor cat, and that is probably a good thing because he is seriously overweight. I don’t imagine Earl would stack up favorably to some of the rangy outdoor cats I’ve seen around our neighborhood.

I’m sure the instinctual prey-killing part of his brain is dulled from never getting to roam. I catch him sitting by our patio doors at times riveted by the birds on the fence and the occasional heron that bird-walks around our pool. He vibrates his mouth in the strangest way. I have yet to capture this on film, although I’ve tried.  He ate a lizard once and I’m pretty sure that was the only creature ever to fall into his clutches. Until last night.

Having finally fallen asleep after a couple of hours of listening to my husband’s snores, I bolted awake to a wailing meow from Earl that could only mean he had caught himself a mouse. I’ve had quite a few cats and it is always the same with them. They stalk, they capture, they screech for you as if to say Behold, humans! I have fulfilled my cat destiny and killed your house vermin!

I was exhausted. And pissed. My husband can sleep through any midnight announcement from the kids, from a wet bed to vomit. And now, a dead mouse. Or half-dead. You never know what you’re gonna get.

I crept out of the bedroom, toward the sound of Earl still mawwing and growling his excitement. He was hunched over on the throw rug by the door out to the pool, guarding his trophy.

I turned on the light, hoping I was dealing with the intact corpse of a recently deceased rodent and not, as has happened with my other cats, a grotesque torso or mauled head. I cautiously peeked around Earl’s protective paws and learned neither scenario was to be.

It was an innocent bunny, not of the flesh and blood and gore kind, but of the Easter basket mascot variety. Man, Earl the Cat is losing it.