The Shit Weasel (the Cat that adopted us) and the Tart (his female feline friend) working as a tag team caught something tonight. It wasn't cute. The light had gone completely and the Slug (husband) came in to let me know that they were out there in the garden somewhere with something...
So I stumbled about in the dark and shouted the Shit Weasel's name and the little fucker Growled at me. Really loud and really serious type growling, that would have sent me scurrying back into the house if I hadn't already had a couple of bottles of dutch lager inside me.
So I shouted some more and the Shit Weasel picked what ever he'd caught up and ran straight for the kitchen door, only deviating at the very last moment when that primeval self-preservation instinct kicked in and he chose instead to go down the side of the house. Must have known I'd have picked him up and added the colour of his brains and innards to the charmless collection of colours our house is already decorated in otherwise. God, I hate that cat.
Even then he stopped in the middle of the strawberry bed in the back yard. I blundered about in the gloom and trampled through the bits of forsythia that hadn't fitted into the recycling bin, shouted some more and finally he got the message.
He took his kill through to next door, via a gap in the fence, and didn't come back until he'd finished with it over in their garden.
Someone else dealing with it. That's the way to do things.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment