Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Not in your house, he isn't!
The other day I let Frieda outside. Not ten seconds later, before I'd even walked away from the door, she wanted back in. I assumed it was because TC was on the porch, in a pissy mood. But as soon as I closed the door behind her I saw why she wanted in - she'd stolen his vole. And now it was in my house. Alive.
I ordered her outside. She ran upstairs and hid behind a toilet. I nudged her butt out, and she took off downstairs with her vole, his little vole legs kicking frantically. We repeated this in a few more rooms, until she finally found safety beneath a chair and put her vole down. And the real game was on!
We couldn't find him. Not me or Frieda, and not Harley or Penny or Ella, all of whom are strictly indoor cats and thought this was the best game we'd ever played. I did the only thing I could do - I left the experts alone and waited.
An hour later I heard soft growling in the family room. TC walked in there with me to see what was going on. In the center of the room, Ella was facing down Harley and Penny with the vole hanging from her mouth, still kicking. TC went, "Hey, I recognize that vole!" Ella, knowing a real threat when she saw it, dove under the rolltop desk, where she made the mistake of putting down her vole. Three cats went for it. The vole miraculously ran through the furry melee and darted across the room. I darted to the laundry room for a bucket, and came back to find the vole sitting up on his hind legs, back to the wall, facing down his four biggest nightmares. While they tried to decide who should make the first grab, I did. I scooped him up and carried him outside, releasing him in the dead marigolds where he promptly dove beneath the snow and disappeared.
I came back inside to incredulous looks from five cats who wondered how I could be so stupid.
"You threw it out? Seriously?"