Dear Foster Kitty that lives in our yard,
I’ll admit, when I heard you were going to be living in the yard of the house we are renting, I was pretty excited. I love all animals, and especially ones I can pick up and cuddle. I was not disappointed when I met you. You were so friendly, and it wasn’t too long before my 3 year old and you were fast friends. It took a little longer for you to win the affections of the Little Babe, but win them you did. After all, you have a very winning personality!
I’ve never had an outdoor cat before, and while it was nice to give you a little pat here and there, and watch you run around the yard with the boys, I was mostly just happy that I could enjoy you without having to actually take care of you.
It wasn’t long, however, before you starting making regular appearances at the back door, meowing your little heart out for a treat. Next, you decided to start sleeping in the stroller in the garage, and then you began to make a mad dash for the indoors anytime we tried to get in or out. On occasion, you even tried to take a ride into town with us, jumping into the car, and making yourself at home between the car seats while we strapped the boys in. I was annoyed, but willing to overlook these misdemeanors. After all, you allow Big M to cart you around when you don’t really need “help,” and even though Little Babe loves you so hard he tries to squeeze your eyes out every chance he gets, you still come back for more. Your internal motor of love and appreciation never seems to cease, and I appreciate that about you, kitty.
But kitty. We need to talk. And I think you know why. I’m referring, of course, to the incident that occurred last week as I was getting the boys into the car. As per usual, I let Big M run around the garage and play with you while I got Little Babe safely tucked in. It was at this point that I noticed the bird flying around. He dove here and there, obviously looking for a way to get out. That’s strange, I thought, the Hubs must have let him in this morning without realizing. I’ll just open the garage door and see if he flies out on his own. I kept my eye on him, as the door slowly lifted, wanting to make sure that he got out safely. The door was only half way open when I saw him turn in it’s direction. Oh, good. He’ll just go out on his own, and I won’t have to try and shoo him out. No sooner had I thought this, than I saw him make the dive. Before my brain could even register the horror my eyes were seeing, you flew into the air, snatching the bird mid-flight, and landed deftly on all fours, his little body firmly wedged between your fangs.
No! Bad kitty! Let that birdie go! I yelled and screamed, but it was to no avail. The bird was half dead already, and had I tried to pry it out of your locked jaws, it likely would not have survived. Plus, I didn’t have time for birdie resuscitation. I was on my way to town, you remember.
Once the shock had worn off, and I had explained to Big M what all the fuss was about, I realized, this is the way of the world with outdoor kitties, and I must accept what is. I backed the car out of the garage, and went back to close the door. And there, lo and behold, were you, siting on the doorstep with the dead bird in your mouth. You will likely remember this well part of the incident well. You seemed to not understand why I was kicking you out of the garage, and insisted, despite my repeated attempts to shoo you with my foot, on darting right back in as soon as I had got you out. Finally, I picked you up, dead bird and all, and carried you out. DO NOT, I said, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES bring that bird back into the garage. I felt I was pretty clear, kitty. I was firm, forceful, and direct.
Yet, a few hours later, back from shopping with tired kids, a car to unload, and dinner guests on their way, what did I find? Feathers. Everywhere, kitty. All. Over. The. Garage. And to top it off, a SEVERED BIRD HEAD, sitting on my top step.
To say that I am unimpressed is an understatement. I happen to know for a fact that you have lots and lots of food available to you. In fact, and I say this in love, you have begun to resemble the pumpkins you were named for (not our name choice, by the way). You do not need to eat a bird. You don’t need the extra calories. I’m just saying. But if indulge you must(who doesn’t love a treat now and then), then in the future, please, for the love of Pete, DO NOT, bring me the head of your kill.
I don’t want it.
I won’t even appreciate it. Do you know what I mean?
I wouldn’t have felt the need to talk to you about this, kitty, except that something happened over the weekend that significantly changes our dynamic. You see, over the weekend, we adopted you. You are ours now, to love and to squeeze, and to feed and to have. And we are so excited to have you.
But Pumpkin, seriously. No.More. Bird Heads.
She who will forevermore be scooping your poop.
P.S. If you value your life at all, don’t ever jump on the Hubs’ back while he’s pulling on his boots again. You’ve been warned.