I like to think of my eldest cat as a dignified old woman. Totally deaf, completely disinterested in anything other than eating, sleeping, and periodically howling in her gruff old voice, but living about her old age in quiet dignity.
So imagine my surprise today when I saw her running around with a small squeaky toy in her mouth.
“That’s so kitten-like,” I thought. Then, “I don’t remember that squeaky toy. Maybe it’s new. Probably a squeaky catnip toy. Cats never outgrow catnip.” And finally, “that’s a bird, you dumb-ass. But it’s so tiny…”
When I realized that it was a mouse she was holding. My first reaction was to say “cool.” I seriously thought her hunting days were behind her, and that all she did now was sit around, talk a lot, and not clean herself. You know, like most old women. (Haw!)
For a moment I though I might try to save the mouse, but by now it looked pretty mangled – and you know that point where an animal has been attacked and you know the most humane thing is just to let it die as quickly as possible? That’s the point I decided we were at. With nothing else to do, I grabbed Spot, tossed her outside so she could eat the mouse there and not get blood all over the carpet.
So, while I watched through the window as she ate every last piece of this poor little creature, I thought about her age. She’s 18, which translates to about 90 in cat years.
I had lunch with grandma Depressia today. She’s almost 90. I can’t picture her jumping on a small helpless creature and eating it. Actually, I kinda can, and now I’m too distracted to continue writing. Peace out, y’all.