A few weeks ago, my cats were particularly rowdy, scampering around the house at nights, wrestling with each other, making weird cat noises, knocking things over, and wreaking all kinds of havoc in my house. Three nights in a row, I would bolt awake thinking my house was being broken into. Nope, just the cats being badasses. I, of course, blamed myself for their misbehaviour, because I was in rehearsals for a play and hadn't been home for weeks except to eat and sleep.
After the third night, I got up to go to the bathroom and noticed something lying on the floor. One of those cat toys that looks like a mouse. Relieved, I thought, "Oh, they just found one of their toys under some furniture or something and they've been up all night playing with it. I'm not a bad person after all."
Upon closer inspection, however, it wasn't a cat toy that looked like a mouse. It was a mouse. A dead one.
A mixture of emotions - a whole cornucopia, in fact - flitted through me. A feeling of violation because this rodent had invaded my house. Sadness for the mouse because it was dead. Pride that my cats had proven themselves to be of some practical use rather than the useless slugs I had previously thought them to be. Horror that my babies could actually kill another living thing. Anxiety because I knew that I would have to pick its lifeless body up somehow and dispose of it. [M@rtha Stew@rt home tip #346: A discarded blueberry container can serve as a mouse corpse receptacle in a pinch! Just scoop and close - your hands need never touch the slightly rigid and soon-to-be maggot-ridden corpse of the mouse. It's a good thing.]
Later that night, a cast mate and I were swinging by my house to pick up a bottle of wine. Joking, I said to her: "Let's go see if there are any new dead things in my house!" I went in and sure enough, in the hallway, there was another dead mouse. A baby this time. "I guess I'd better take care of that," I said, and went to get another blueberry container.
In the meantime, Musically Speaking started screaming her head off.
"Aw, come on - it's just a dead mouse. It's not going to hurt you," I said, rolling my eyes.
"The dog - the dog. Oh my god!!"
"The dog - she has it IN HER MOUTH! She's chasing me! Aaaaaaaggghhhh!"
[My dog has this thing she does with her toys. She scoops them up in her mouth and then comes at you with them. If she really likes you, she'll try and cram her "toy" in your mouth. Apparently, she reeeaaally liked Musically Speaking.]
"Oh my god, that is so gross!" said I, secretly relieved that the dog wasn't chasing me. At the sound of my voice, though, the dog realized that the one she loves most was in the house, and felt the need to come find me and show me her new toy.
She came racing up to me, mouse in mouth, tail dangling from the right corner of her mouth. She began thrusting her face at mine. It was utterly grotesque.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, and kept screaming until she dropped the mouse at my feet, gave me an odd look that said, "Ungrateful freak" and walked away.