louse mouse

So my cat, the great and fearless cockroach (and occasionally grasshopper) hunter, has stepped up his game a little. The other night he caught a mouse.

Now I've had cats for forever: Griffin is the 5th cat I've personally owned or, more accurately, the fifth that I've been indentured to. Cats don't have owners. As is evidenced by my former cat Livingston more than happily taking over ruling the burgeoning Splark & Kurly family.

(As an aside: Splarky & Kurly are my lovely friends who are pregnant again. Which means that since Splarky for some unknown *ha!* reason picked up the nickname 'Satan' at some stage in his checkered career, Kurly is now carrying the Antichrist. Jeez Splark, I always suspected you'd destroy the world someday but I was thinking something a lot less traditional..)

But I digress.

Where was I?

Griffin. Mouse. Yes.

So he brought this wee beast in the other night, acting all proud of himself. We duly rescued said rodent from his frothing jaws and found it a box in which to huddle out it's last breaths. If you've had a cat you'll have had to administer the coup de grace to various birds, mice, rats, guinea pigs, rabbits, et al (remind me to tell you about the chinchilla sometime..) when they're brought in coughing their last. It's never pleasant. This one was, I thought, on his last legs so I opted for the less grisly 'put him in a box and toss out the body in the morning' method. Besides it looked like it'd been a pet mouse (pictures to follow) and wasn't acting afraid of humans so it was easier to just contain him (excuses excuses - lets face it, I'm just a softy).

The only problem was that in the morning he was chirpy and right as rain. Damn survivor.

Now I have a pet mouse.

Fucksticks.

Addendum: It appears that Griffin's hunting progression up the evolutionary chain has taken a dive: tonight he proudly brought in a leaf.