Friday, July 20, 2012

Wild Thang--by Josh

I'm just glad I had those purple rubber gloves, the ones so generously (if unknowingly) supplied by the Tualatin Hospital while visiting Rebecca's granddad.  Danger the Cat had been wild all day, even tearing a strip off a shower curtain, shredding newspaper, playing with anything but the actual toys we bought for him while in the States.  As usual, he was whining for his late-evening feeding, guiding me back to his room (yes, our current house is that big) with plaintive meows and bug eyes.  He had been driving us crazy, having sprinted into the living room and climbing, wet, onto the sofa.  I figured I could feed him and lock him up, so we could have some peace and quiet.
Upon entering the room, however, I noticed a bunch of black stuff all over the floors; then I noticed the black and red streaks on the walls, including the phone jack dangling from its former spot; finally, my eyes rested on the decapitated object of Danger's recreational hunting habits: the remains of feisty, yet doomed, black bird.
You see, our cat is nothing more than a poacher.  I found it hilarious that, having just fulfilled his evolutionary mandate to hunt a bird (or anything else that moves: roaches, lizards, shower curtains), ripping its head off and shredding its innards across our floor, he took one look at it and thought, "Yuck! I want some real food!"
I have to respect the fighting spirit of the little avian victim. The mess that was made in that room reminded me of the cartoon with the frog being swallowed by the heron, webbed hands wrapped around its attacker's neck.  It certainly didn't go easily, and yet, once it was over, Danger didn't even have the decency to eat it.
Well, at least we've got a freezer.

1 comment:

  1. I say freeze it until you have a few more, buy a bottle of rotgut whiskey, and bake yourself a pie (don't overbake, however):
    Sing a song of sixpence,
    A pocket full of rye.
    Four and twenty blackbirds,
    Baked in a pie.
    When the pie was opened,
    The birds began to sing;
    Wasn't that a dainty dish,
    To set before the king?