For some reason, rising before the sun literally pains me -- I kid you not. You should hear how emphatically I just punched those fourteen words out on my keyboard just now. Whoa -- flying fingers don’t lie. As I emerged from the toasty solace of my home in the wee hours this very morning, even the glowing orb in our sky was still in ‘zzzzzzzz mode.’ I could have sworn at that moment that our very own sun peeked at me with one half-opened eye, but my sleep-deprived mind must have been playing tricks on me because I soon realized that our star actually just turned over in bed and burrowed back under the covers. Go ahead…roll your eyes all you want, but this is precisely the type of looney-tunes-shiznit that goes down at 3:24 a.m. while the rest of the world is in happy pajama land.
If you’re thinking that something pret-ttttty darned important…something of an especially urgent nature must have triggered my pre-dawn journey, then you’d be dead-on. It was a matter of life and limb to be exact -- but not for myself and fortunately not for anyone that I knew personally. Still, I simply couldn’t stand by and witness the carnage for one moment longer…the shrill squeals punctuated with shallow panting and desperate gasps for air…good-God, noooo!!!! It was all too much.
Wow. What a build-up. I bet you're hoping that this story is worth it. Um, so am I. Frankly, I didn’t know that he was capable of such merciless taunting and blatantly bloody violence. I just thought…that he was better than that…I mean, he always demonstrated such good manners and restraint…up until this morning, that is. The “HE” I’m referring to? Oh, right…that would be a member of my household…someone of the feline persuasion named Cyrano (pronounced “Seer-A-No,” as in the famous literary lover with the sizable schnozola).
Come on, don’t jump ship yet…this is no wuvvy schnookums kitty story. By the way, that’s a picture of him above, vogue-ing for the camera. As you can clearly see, he has a nose like any typical cat. The one thing that he does share in common with his namesake is that he is absolutely deeeee-voted to the objects of his affection and wastes no time putting the moves on you whenever and wherever. Okay…so you probably get that he’s normally a good cat…perhaps even a sweet, mush-pot with a tendency to drool all over his favorite humans.
So, how is it possible that things have gone so dreadfully wrong? Well, somewhere along the line -- at the ripe old age of 13 if you really want to get specific -- he morphed into a blood-sucking, bone-crushing, butt-kicking-cougar n’er do well with a penchant for delivering calculated methods of torture to all of his unfortunate critter-like victims. This former snuggle-bunny who was known for his tendency to blow kitty-kisses into the wind transformed – seemingly overnight – into a Forest Friend(s) Terminator with the soul of Beelzebub.
By day, he shrewdly maintains his mild-mannered lothario-like persona…but as soon as the lights go out, he stalks the darkest corners of my home, strategizing horrific new ways to snuff out anything with a petite pulse. Incredulously, he is an exclusively INDOOR cat and yet STILL MANAGES to cripple and maim a sizable percentage of the local rodent population between the hours of 1:47 a.m. and 3:52 a.m. Why oh why do these dopey little mice come out of the woodwork – can’t they sense a fang-bearing killer in their midst? Perhaps they are temporarily disoriented and/or seduced by Cyrano’s smooth moves, long enough for him to then vamp out and drain their lifeless bodies in his midnight kitty tumbleweed cloaked lair. Whatever the case, I’m sick and tired of finding the crumpled bodies of his indiscriminately murdered victims littered throughout the house.
As luck would have it, the attempts of my dear sweet Jaws of Death to snuff out his latest would-be victim were rudely interrupted, only because shrill, mousey screams managed to pierce through the REM sleep that I am fortunate enough to enjoy just once every lunar cycle. As Cyrano clutched the tiny, writhing, panic-stricken thing in his instrument of destruction, little droplets of saliva lazily trailed out of the corners of his mouth. And his eyes…if they could have laughed maniacally, they would have surely shook the entire house. In a moment that alternated between horror, desperation and mercy, I literally pried Cyrano’s mouth open right OVER an empty 5 gallon bucket – and you know what? His teeny-weenie whiskered "close call" looked so relieved to plunk down into such relatively closed, cat-free quarters that it actually started to lick all of the Cyrano-schuvtz off of his fur – as if nothing had ever happened. For a moment, I felt oddly triumphant. How funny, I thought, that it had such a miniscule pea-brain that it was able to enjoy an utterly carefree existence just moments after what would have been its final curtain call.
In what could only be described as mousey carpe diem to the nth degree, the critter with a new lease on life then began to repeatedly spring up and down inside the bucket (sometimes reaching a good 8 inches in the air), almost as if it was bouncing on a trampoline. It proceeded to do this over and over -- which makes me thankful that buckets come with lids! I ended up relocating the super-fortunate mouse several miles away from my home, in a nice part of the woods, just to ensure that it would never again cross paths with my cat. I really felt all warm and fuzzy, despite the un-Godly hour and slight gasoline expense.
When I finally opened the lid and gently tilted the bucket toward the ground, the obviously peppy mouse winked at me right before it drop-kicked me in the ear lobe and lunged at my jugular. Yeah, I wasn't expecting that, either. Fortunately, I was somewhat of an expert at prying mouths open...plus, the one thing I learned from it was that things always have a way of working out in the end. Aside from receiving a minor puncture wound that bled out for just 6 minutes (and was easily patched up with a Band-Aid), I didn't regret coming to the aid of one of Mother Nature's creatures and I would do it again...in protective head gear, of course. In retrospect though, it appears that kidnapped, butt-whipped mice can develop Stockholm syndrome. Kinda weird, huh? Does anyone have experience in this lesser-known realm of preditor-prey behavior?
http://agricultureguide.org/meee-oowch-two-furs-of-a-feather-flock-together/
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