Sleep interrupted by three mouse-hunting fuzzballs.
I thought the feet I heard creeping down the stairs were on the way to the box, but then there was a second pair of (nearly) silent feet. I think the excitement of the chase destroyed all evidence of stealthiness on somebody's part.
Clearly, I missed the first set of feet entirely.
My aging, former barncats are now bumbling and fumbling over what next to do with their quarry.
Flop crouches near an unrecognized diminutive figure on the floor, growling as quietly as she can at Cleo, who is in the shadows - far behind the action. Hobbes is hot on the trail and has cornered the seemingly crippled (or very dazed) mouse, and is 'on point', where Flop is still trying to find what is truly in front of her.
It's all too funny, and sad, and curious.
Hobbes is still carrying on with her very quiet talking. What I cannot discern is if she is chatting to the mouse or squeaking instructions to the other girls. Of course, it wasn't until I turned on my bedside lamp and peered over the edge to the floor, that I saw what exactly was going on.
Wobbly Mouse was either playing dead or was truly one foot in the grave. Hobbes was sitting within nose-to-fur position, poking it at 12-second intervals to illicit movement. Flop was alternately looking for said mouse and grumbling over her shoulder at Cleo. Cleo...well, Cleo was laying on the floor, about four feet behind it all, cleaning her face and gazing in the general direction occasionally with mild interest and zero enthusiasm.
I hopped out of bed to grab a piece of paper towel with which to grab the soon dead carcass, heard a little commotion, and when I returned, mouse was nowhere to be seen and the cats had called off the chase. Flop and Cleo had come upstairs, and Hobbes was perched on the sofa, looking neither satisfied or eager.
WHERE'S THE MOUSE??!!??
Jeez, I love a good farm cat.
No comments:
Post a Comment