Today’s post has some hunting death and some realities of owning predators as pets that I know not everyone enjoys. If you’re squeamish, please feel free to skip this post.
fAngus and I have come to an agreement of sorts regarding his serial-killing proclivities, in no small part due to my houseguests being willing to also participate. He’s allowed to go outside when he feels like it as long as he comes back in at bedtime: my cat has a 10pm curfew. Now that it’s cold (today the high in my town is 9 degrees Fahrenheit…I think in Celsius that’s “holy fuck it’s too cold to leave the blankets” but I’m not certain), fAngus is generally willing to keep his outside adventures shorter during the day, and he’d rather not stay out all night either. This morning he came in from his post-breakfast rounds early, wherein he hunted fat squirrels (he hasn’t gotten one, yet) and patrolled around the fence and planted his chilly buns on the deck railing so he could watch for me to open the door. He gave me a very cute and slightly salmony-scented breath kiss on the tip of my nose, twice. We started our day well.
I should explain that the REASON for his temper and my possible impending defacement is his own fault. The other day, before I drove out to the SK’s house, I was going to pick up the yard (as you do with dogs on garbage pickup day). I picked up NINE bodies. NINE, in various states of frozen crushed or broken little rodenty bodies. I don’t know which one of my pets is killing Nazgul in my yard, since I’ve caught Minerva tossing dead mouse snacks in the air just like a cat would which I presume fAngus taught her, but nobody’s eating them. And for that I’m grateful.
Two months ago I caught Ragnar in the yard with a bunny. Sadly, the bunny had not survived his attention. It must’ve been a blitz attack because I never heard a peep. If you’ve ever lived in the country or anywhere rabbits are regularly hunted by coyotes, hawks, etc…well, they have a nightmare-inducing scream when attacked. Ragnar had to have killed that poor little dude instantly, proving that rabbits do not belong on the inside of the dog fence. Again luckily, Ragnar isn’t fussy when I take even the best tasting toys away from him. I prefer picking up mouse bodies to bunny bodies, and on the bright side I haven’t seen any in the house. So good job, furballs.
Anyway, being the furry little sadistic murderer he is, fAngus was required to get some vaccinations to keep him from getting rabies, distemper, and as it turns out feline leukemia. And so he trotted good naturedly into the cat kennel and cheerfully chatted with me in the car ride to the vet’s office, where he snuggled the vet and techs like a long lost family member. And we had a lovely afternoon with no complications or hiding under the exam room chairs at all.
Yes, I’m lying.
I’m quite lucky fAngus no longer breaks skin. On the third attempt to get him in the kennel, he squeezed his claws through my shirt JUST enough that I knew they were there. But he neither bit nor dug in with said claws, and so while I might bitch and fuss about having to collect him upstairs three times before I got him in the carrier, I’m aware that he’s kinder than I likely deserve.
fAngus doesn’t make a peep other than the occasional low “MROW” when he’s kenneled. He doesn’t scream or his or growl like the other cat in the lobby (who we could hear while we waited in the exam room through the closed door). He mostly just glares, tries to become as tiny as possible for his 12lb fluffball body, and endures with dignified stoicism. He was prodded and petted and weighed and shot with vaccines, because we are emphatically a vaccination family. And then I brought him home, opened the kennel door, and lost him.
I think he might be under the dining room table, but I’m not certain. I AM certain that the dogs better leave him be until he’s less angry about the horrors of his day. His distemper shot did not, in fact, dis any of his temper. And so we’ll see if the end of my nose, which he’d so lovingly (and carefully) licked twice this morning in affection, remains attached to my face in the morning. After all, if my bedroom door isn’t open he “MROWR”s in a plaintive, sad voice until I open it so he can snuggle between my feet. So it’s sleep and chance an attack, or don’t sleep.
I love to sleep. I’ll take my chances. Especially since he’s decided he’s an indoor/outdoor cat now who hunts, therefore occasional vet visits are the price paid. Sorry dude.