cats will be cats
I thought my overweight nine year old cat was too slow to catch anything live. But yesterday, as I sat on the front steps trying to get some Vitamin D, she came trotting over to me with a lax lump of chipmunk in her mouth. I suppose she was (as cat's will) bringing me, the only mother she's ever known, a present.
I felt bad that I had to grab her by the neck and make her put the poor critter down, since she was probably very proud of her catch. But I did, and she did, and the chipmunk, unhurt, took off like a shot toward the sheltering bushes.
We rather like our chipmunks, who spend a great deal of time waiting under the back steps and in the drain pipes for the squirrels to leave so that they can graze on the fallen bird seed. I have noticed two neighboring cats, one white, the other black and white, slinking into our back yard to try and catch one of the little guys. The other afternoon I happened to look out the window to see the black and white cat succeed. I ran to the door and tried to frighten the cat into dropping his acquisition, but the fast feline was already out of sight.
It's a cat-catch-chipmunk world out here on the mountain.
It's also a world terrorized by an old lady who believes she is entitled to every minute of our time.
Again, here it is, after midnight, and I'm still up. Still blogging. Still wishing for a world where cats and chipmunks live peacefully side by side and where old dementia-ridden ladies are sweet and cooperative.
But cats will be cats.
