The Cats of Critter Cove

 

Pat Fish

 

I sing a sweet song of revenge this eve.   I know that for a few short hours, all the moles in my eco-garden have lived in abject terror, unabated by snakes, humans, or fancy mole-deterrents.  This is mostly because my cats, five of them, all decided they wanted to go outside.  As a team, they paw the sliding screen door until the thing opens, then they, well, they go outside.

We do not let the cats of Critter Cove outside of the human home.  To do so would upset the gentle balance of things.  The cats would stalk and catch the birds invited here by my own seductive seed.  Not to mention it's not such a good idea to let cats roam outside anyway.

Still, they get it in their heads that they might like to go outside so they slide open the door and do just that.  Cats are like that.

We discovered the open screen door a few hours after their departure. With a gentle call, they return.  Only Josephine -- the only one of my cats  that actually wrote a novel, by the way -- brings in a mole.  The blind rat was dead and husband says it didn't look like it died an easy death.

Now I'm upset that the cats feel free to slide open the door whenever they wish and I'm darn angry that they went out and frolicked about with no remorse.  On the other time they did this, another cat caught a rabbit.

Ah. . .but that mole.  I shall dream happy dreams tonight of all the frightened moles huddled in their burrows.  I imagine them to be sharing tales, much like humans around the camp fires, of the night that the cats descended to stop their peaceful digging with nothing short of outright murder.

I am not even too upset that Josephine brought her mole catch directly into the house, although husband disposed of it before my sensitive  eyes could view the carnage.

 



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