Last night, the husband and I were hanging out in our living room and watching TV. I was pretty tired, having just got off the plane from a business trip. Enter, stage right, our cat, with something in her mouth.
Let me pause for a moment to set the scene a bit. This is an indoor-only, small-boned (but perhaps a teeny bit plump) pampered princess of a feline. Although she does have a particular knack for bug-catching, as far as we knew that was where her hunting prowess ended.
Assuming it was a toy or a ball of dryer fuzz she’d found somewhere, we walked toward her. Nope, it was very much an actual (though apparently dead?) mouse. The husband made her drop it. The “dead” mouse immediately started running across the living room. And then I did something that I assumed only happened in cartoons. I screamed in a pitch I didn’t know I was capable of, and jumped up on a chair.
It was a proud moment.
Understandably, this freaked out the cat, who, after managing to catch the mouse again with impressive speed, ran upstairs and straight to her go-to hiding spot: under our bed.
For what seemed like an eternity, the husband and I stared at each other and wondered what we were going to do. Then we went upstairs and pulled the bed away from the wall to get to the cat. (Evidently I did not help matters by wanting to sit on the bed to keep away from the mouse. Whatever.)
Finally, our cat dropped the mouse, which had been dispatched by this point. The husband got rid of it, and the cat proceeded to strut around smugly.
It’s good to be home.