Roscoe has really stepped up his hunting skills lately. He brought home two dead squirrels* last week, and I rescued a chipmunk from his jaws of death on the weekend. It ran away while I laughed evilly and Roscoe ran up a tree in about a split second. I was pretty impressed with his athleticism.
Barely a week goes by without an exploded bird on the carpet or bloodstains on the floor, and Roscoe has also busied himself with ridding the house of mice which I didn’t know existed. There was one behind the microwave, which his patient lying in wait:
I’m not sure why he’s become such a prolific serial killer lately, but I can’t say it’s a happy development. I especially hate it when the cats kill birds, though I have stopped crying as I dispose of their feather-light, feathery corpses.
Oddly, Roscoe has become more cuddly at the same time as he has become the terror of the local bird and rodent population. He sits on my lap every morning when I have coffee, which he hasn’t done since he was a kitten, and sleeps with me almost every night, at least part of it. I guess you have to take the good with the bad.
The other kitties are pretty much the way they always have been. Clyde is his cuddly, mama’s boy self. His other main interests in life are food, napping (he snores!) and treats, not necessarily in that order. Audrey is still terrorizing the neighbor dogs, perfecting the Glare of Death, and controlling me with the force of her mind, the way it should be.
*Preferable to the undead variety. Zombie animals are the worst. ~shudder~
A YEAR AGO: Last Halloween. Little did I know it would be our last Halloween as Jessica’s auntourage, though I really should have suspected those days were numbered once the double digits made their appearance.