Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Twice

You would think that after stepping on a dead mouse left by Orville as a trophy just outside the door to the garage, I’d have learned to look before stepping.

You would be wrong.

The first mouse I stepped on, months ago, was a fresh kill, but Orville had managed to kill the poor thing via internal injuries, thus there was no blood.

The one I stepped on the night before last? It was not so cleanly murdered.

There was blood. And it ended up on my foot.

Ick and ewww and gross and ugh!!!!

To add insult to injury, Tom, who was sitting all of six feet away from where I’d stepped on the nasty, bloody, squishy thing, didn’t even know I’d done it. He didn’t hear my gagging and my screeching and my near-hyperventilating. No. He swears he didn’t.

So I got the litter scooper and the dust pan and managed to get the corpse onto litter scooper while looking at it as little as possible and took it out and threw it in the field. Orville trailed me, meowing constantly, as if seeking approval for his kill. I snapped at him that I was not impressed.

I realize this is what cats do. They kill mice and moles and birds and then leave the evidence behind either in celebration, as if saying, “Hey, look what I did! Give me a treat because I’m awesome.” Or perhaps they’re leaving a bloody trail to show you, “Hey, look what I can do. Give me a treat or you’re next.”

Ahem.

So, perhaps after this last nightmare experience, I will look before stepping into the garage. One can only hope.

2 comments:

Julie said...

Please tell me you had shoes on...

Tommie said...

Oh, good heavens, no, I was not wearing shoes. I wasn't even wearing socks. That would have been too convenient and much less gross. No, I got the whole experience of stepping on a dead, bloody mouse with bare feet. Ugh!