"Four times! What a dud cat..."
"You screamed, Mum." The smirk in my daughters voice.
"I did not. I don't do "scream", Teags..."
Snickering, "You screamed."
"It moved! Who wouldn't be distressed?!"
'It was just a rat.."
"Just? Just a rat?!"
Teagan, laughing "Whats wrong with rats?"
It came out in a hasty, malformed but meaningful, single word, collaborative of: "Bites, rabies, foaming-at-mouth, disease-ridden, bites, filth, wealth-of-bacteria," and a few more blurry additions.
Earlier I had hammered through the house at top speed, yelling for the cat, "Mooch! Mooches Mooch! Kids, where's the Mooch?!!"
Then I sprinted back through the house with cat in arms, collecting the kids in my wake like a high speed pied piper...
There it was.
I stood in the doorway pointing out the rat to Mooch, who, not at all interested, was instead using all cat devices to draw blood from my forearms for disturbing his sleep.
Failing his interest or even acknowledgement I then threw him, like dropping a feline bomb, from the doorway into the room near the rat.
Landing in a four-footed soft thud he turned, not even seeing it, Mooch cast a filthy look of disdain at me then tried to sashay out. So I picked him up again...
And tossed.
Four times! Four times I threw the bomb/cat at the rat, Mooch failing to deploy each time.
Finally I threw a sock at the rat, which moved, (hence my "small cry" (not scream) of distress, a little running on the spot holding the babies as high up in the air as possible (think of a Riverdance technique here with arms overhead).
(Lets face it, they are the rodent version of huntsman spider, aren't they?)
and Mooch, finally seeing the rat, pounced like the legend hunter he usually is.
There was growling. There was blood. Then there was crunching...
and to the tune of all of our "Ewww! Mooch!" we left him to his well deployed, no-longer-failing, feline devices.
"Screamed"? Pffft
"You screamed, Mum." The smirk in my daughters voice.
"I did not. I don't do "scream", Teags..."
Snickering, "You screamed."
"It moved! Who wouldn't be distressed?!"
'It was just a rat.."
"Just? Just a rat?!"
Teagan, laughing "Whats wrong with rats?"
It came out in a hasty, malformed but meaningful, single word, collaborative of: "Bites, rabies, foaming-at-mouth, disease-ridden, bites, filth, wealth-of-bacteria," and a few more blurry additions.
Earlier I had hammered through the house at top speed, yelling for the cat, "Mooch! Mooches Mooch! Kids, where's the Mooch?!!"
Then I sprinted back through the house with cat in arms, collecting the kids in my wake like a high speed pied piper...
There it was.
I stood in the doorway pointing out the rat to Mooch, who, not at all interested, was instead using all cat devices to draw blood from my forearms for disturbing his sleep.
Failing his interest or even acknowledgement I then threw him, like dropping a feline bomb, from the doorway into the room near the rat.
Landing in a four-footed soft thud he turned, not even seeing it, Mooch cast a filthy look of disdain at me then tried to sashay out. So I picked him up again...
And tossed.
Four times! Four times I threw the bomb/cat at the rat, Mooch failing to deploy each time.
Finally I threw a sock at the rat, which moved, (hence my "small cry" (not scream) of distress, a little running on the spot holding the babies as high up in the air as possible (think of a Riverdance technique here with arms overhead).
(Lets face it, they are the rodent version of huntsman spider, aren't they?)
and Mooch, finally seeing the rat, pounced like the legend hunter he usually is.
There was growling. There was blood. Then there was crunching...
and to the tune of all of our "Ewww! Mooch!" we left him to his well deployed, no-longer-failing, feline devices.
"Screamed"? Pffft
Mooch - Cat Grenade
