So tonight, the cat planted himself in the kitchen right in front of the oven.
“What’s he doing?” my daughter asked. “Is something back there?”
“Oh, no,” I breezily assured her. “Our cat’s too lazy to chase anything.”
“I heard some scratchy noises back there awhile ago,” my son chimed in.
“Stop trying to scare your sister,” I said.
“But I did,” he insisted.
“There is nothing behind the oven,” I replied.
Fifteen minutes later …
A horrific screeching noise caught my attention.
“Squee! Squee! Squee!”
I rose from the couch, only to see Mr. Kitty, our overweight orange tabby, trotting into the living room with a small, squealing rodent clenched between his teeth.
“Aiiieeeee!!!” I screamed, leaping onto the couch.
“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” hollered my son, who also had seen the rodent.
“EEEEEEEK!!” my daughter yelled. Bear in mind, she had no idea why we were all clustered together on the couch, screaming.
We fled, still screaming,to the front porch.
“What do we do?” my daughter asked, peering inside.
The mouse, having escaped Mr. Kitty’s jaws, fled under the grandfather clock made by Hubs’ grandpa.
Undeterred, Mr. Kitty crouched in front of the clock, swiping a determined paw underneath.
The chase continued, with the mouse running behind two sets of curtains before zipping underneath the buffet in the dining room.
And there it remains, with Mr. Kitty crouched nearby, waiting…
Hubs is on his way back from shooting the Hogs game.
When he gets here, he will be charged with helping Mr. Kitty finish his first kill.
Someone. Hold me.