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When your new roommates are murderers…

⇒Trigger warning: the following post contains stuff that made me toss my cookies. You might want to pop over to YouTube instead and see what’s happening with Johnny and Amber. Just sayin…

Our two used kitties from the Cat Rescue. Sure, they look adorable. Big eyes, fluffy tails… Purring, for god’s sake.

After a tough night of assault and murder, they like to kick back and watch a good cooking show.

We’re into the white nights section of summer here in Scotland. It barely gets dark before the sky starts to lighten.

Yesterday, I woke up at around 4AM, not because of the pearly morning light pouring through my window, but because of the furry little paw patting my cheek.

I stumbled out of the bed, reached for my glasses and phone to confirm that yes, we still had hours before dawn, and set my foot down onto their latest corpse. The dead rodent was still squishy.

⇒NOTE:This post, like yesterday, is only going to go downhill. Hey, I did warn you. 

After boiling my foot and marinating it in a vat of antibacterial soap, I turned on all the lights. The Hub groaned and pulled pillows over his head, so no help there. With a dim memory of feline mahem and glee from the night before, I began my tour.

There was another dead mouse under my office chair. And in the dining room. And, in obvious gross violation of all that’s holy, carefully draped over my slipper in the downstairs hall.

Each little corpse was enshrouded in one of the leftover doggie poo bags, and removed. By me. (Even though I’m fairly sure that somewhere in our wedding vows the Hub had promised to love, honor, and remove large spiders and random corpses. Something like that…)

I wasn’t even through my first cup of coffee when I heard the cats climb on their motorcycles and start banging around the whole downstairs, yelling and thumping, and generally having a terrific time. The Hub was still pretending to be in a sleep coma, so I went in to find yet another little mousie being used as a live football. NOTE: The mouse was still alive. My cats are thrill killers, not meat eaters. If they lived in the USA, they would undoubtedly have tiny semi-automatic weapons for their sport hunting. But even their teensie little fluff-brains know that Little Friskies tuna treats taste MUCH better than Little (dead) Rodents.

I retrieved the terrified little mouse, carried him out to the woods across the street, warned him about coming back into The Killing Fields (our back garden) and released him.
My roommates (the ones who weren’t still pretending to be asleep) were NOT PLEASED.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—but we are definitely going to take as many mousies with us as possible.