I fumbled downstairs as soon as I got up — which is usually later than I’d like to admit, but then I work until past nine at night, dammit — and opened the door to the basement room where the junior cats hang out overnight, to prevent feline combat at three in the morning. This is a nice little pad, as best I can make it — a pretty awesome three-level cat tree, a wire animal crate with a cushy bottom for protected naps, a director’s chair with a fleece blankie, scatter rugs. A few years ago I gave it a decorator paint job with pale peach Dri-Lok and light green garage-floor paint, so as not to offend anyone’s aesthetic sense.
The scatter rugs were flipped, rumpled, upended and displaced. I knew what that meant. The mouse was next to the food dishes where they always display their kill, dead as chivalry, toes turned up.
I went to get a dustpan and brush. When I returned Agatha was batting the carcass around the floor, ultimately lodging it up against and partially under the inflow duct of the furnace. She looked up at me crossly, distinctly offended that the marvelous toy wasn’t working any more. You would think I was responsible for providing a replacement.
Terrible, horrible little thing. I love every spackled pad of her lethal, stone-killer paws.