Sometimes You Feel Like A Mouse...Sometimes You Don't

I think I have figured out why the cats are not killing mice in the garage. Technically, it's only one mouse. The one Farmer H saw the other night when he lingered in his car after getting home from work. I saw it myself yesterday. While the scrunch-eared gray calico was stuffing her gaping maw with Diamond dry cat food (yes, the brand that poisons your pets) out of an old black speckled roasting pan on the floor near the door. That mouse ran right down the wall, TOWARDS the cat! Cheeky little rodent, he is.

This afternoon, while waiting for the garage door to open, I said, "Hey! The cats are all out in the back yard." It was like a cat convention back there.

"They're always in the back yard," said The Pony. But they're not. I don't know when he has ever seen them there, except when I fling a bunch of leftovers off the back deck. They were sitting, several feet apart, like pieced on a yard-sized chess board.

I gave The Pony the door key. He gathered up his backpack and various electronic accoutrements, and headed for the kitchen door. That's our point of entry. Only the #1 son uses the front door. Or Farmer H, coming to and from his goat-and-chicken tending. As I climbed down from T-Hoe, I heard a shout. A chuckle. "Hey, Mom! Genius (the orange-striped cat, the best one, the smartest, the most loving) has a goldfish!"

Ahem. These are not just any goldfish. They are the giant ones that Farmer H has been cultivating in his fake fish pond for nigh on fourteen years. I rushed to get a look. And here is what I saw:

Uh huh. That's a fish behind the cat licking his paws. A fish with chunks eaten out of both sides. A pet who became a meal at the paws and jaws of another pet. Which is so very wrong. We try to discourage that kind of behavior here at the Mansion.

I'm sure that tomorrow, the three dogs will be wearing Essence of Dead Fish.