Occasionally the phone rings and it is Mrs. Dr. Bill, fretting about her cats. Mrs. Bill is Okinawan born and despite having lived here most of her life speaks with a light accent and quaint grammar, but she has been asking me cat questions for so long that I don’t have any real trouble following her.
“What happen, Ashleigh, she catch little field mouse? I think it field mouse. Maybe Ivan catch it.” She consults me frequently about the cats’ diet, vaccine frequency, and litter box habits. Granted that it isn’t a strange assumption, but I am often humbled by how certain she is that I have every answer there is about cats.
We have lots of field mice around here.
“So do your cats catch them?” Yes, they do. “They ever eat?” Not unless you count some mouse pups with gorily nibbled heads caught by the blessed Patricia Twinkle nigh a decade ago, a wholesale cleanout known in this household as the Saturday Night Moussacre. “Because Ashleigh I think she eat part of neck. That bad for them?”
I assured her that cats had been eating mice since the dawn of time and throve upon them, even pointing out, as a past vet of mine once mentioned, that taurine, a critical nutrient for cats, is in nature most richly sourced from mouse brains, small as those must be.
“I think maybe I should get some of those D-Con? Lots of mice getting in this winter, this third time I find.”
I talked her down.
“You already have the best mousetraps available,” I said. “Efficient, humane, ecologically sound. Let them do their work.”
I guess I am the Madonna of the Cats and I just have to roll with it. Goes with a yard full of herbs and a bare-hands fixit shop for busted cranky people. I will end up as the Baba Yaga.