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Apr. 15th, 2009 12:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7Chita has a vole.
In the house.
She's batting it around and thumping and crashing around the living room floor with it.
I am not stopping her, at the moment. Why? Because I'm just so glad the thing's dead, I really don't care what she does with it. I am not currently up to telling the Saga of the Live Vole Number Umpty-Seven.
How does she find these damn things?
I don't know.
At least it's not rats. My childhood cats liked improbable prey. Rats were run-of-the-mill; chipmunks were for show only. For fun, they caught owls. Weasels. Bluejays. Fifteen-pound rabbits.
I am just going to pretend I don't see the vole for a little while.
Don't ask how I know for sure it's dead. I don't like to think about it.
Cats are HORRIBLE creatures. We forget this sometimes.
Well, I do. But only sometimes.
EDITED TO ADD, LEST FATE THINK ME UNGRATEFUL: AT LEAST SHE GOT IT OUTSIDE. I saw her snag it, and run for the house, and it was this really dumb high speed chase with me in my gardening clogs trying to run, brandishing a trowel since I was gardening, going NO! NO! NO! and a tiny gray cat with a LIVE VOLE in her mouth running for the house like YAY! YAY! YAY! and then I had to chase her through the bedroom and the hallway and the kitchen and the living room and OK, I wasn't going to get into the saga, but there was a Saga, and at least the damn thing came from outside. I forgot to mention that my childhood cats did a lot of their weird predation INSIDE the house, to START with. And my father, in the absence of useful cats, on at least two occasions had to beat rats to death with household implements.
So while I am not terribly amused by or impressed by suburbia, at least I don't have to bludgeon rats.
No, I just have to deal with voles. Which are much smaller. And have smaller teeth.
In the house.
She's batting it around and thumping and crashing around the living room floor with it.
I am not stopping her, at the moment. Why? Because I'm just so glad the thing's dead, I really don't care what she does with it. I am not currently up to telling the Saga of the Live Vole Number Umpty-Seven.
How does she find these damn things?
I don't know.
At least it's not rats. My childhood cats liked improbable prey. Rats were run-of-the-mill; chipmunks were for show only. For fun, they caught owls. Weasels. Bluejays. Fifteen-pound rabbits.
I am just going to pretend I don't see the vole for a little while.
Don't ask how I know for sure it's dead. I don't like to think about it.
Cats are HORRIBLE creatures. We forget this sometimes.
Well, I do. But only sometimes.
EDITED TO ADD, LEST FATE THINK ME UNGRATEFUL: AT LEAST SHE GOT IT OUTSIDE. I saw her snag it, and run for the house, and it was this really dumb high speed chase with me in my gardening clogs trying to run, brandishing a trowel since I was gardening, going NO! NO! NO! and a tiny gray cat with a LIVE VOLE in her mouth running for the house like YAY! YAY! YAY! and then I had to chase her through the bedroom and the hallway and the kitchen and the living room and OK, I wasn't going to get into the saga, but there was a Saga, and at least the damn thing came from outside. I forgot to mention that my childhood cats did a lot of their weird predation INSIDE the house, to START with. And my father, in the absence of useful cats, on at least two occasions had to beat rats to death with household implements.
So while I am not terribly amused by or impressed by suburbia, at least I don't have to bludgeon rats.
No, I just have to deal with voles. Which are much smaller. And have smaller teeth.
