The whole reason my husband told me to get another cat -- little realizing I fully intended on getting a bonded pair the next time I adopted -- was to control the mice population that might emerge from the wood that had just been stacked in the basement.
In less than three months, the two cats have proven my husband's wisdom: This morning, Remy trotted upstairs with Dead Mouse Number Five in his mouth.
This was the best photo I could get, and then it was time for incineration in the wood furnace.
Of course, Dwayne wasn't home. It's all well and good to have the cats catching mice but I'm not the kind of wannabe country girl who nonchalantly scoops up a dead critter and disposes of it.
But I donned the dishwashing gloves and did it today because of Dead Mouse Number Four.
Early yesterday morning, while I was doing yoga, the cats came upstairs with a dead mouse and since they seemed to be having such a good time playing with it and since I didn't want to interrupt my yoga practice, I let them play.
But when Dwayne got up and couldn't find the mouse, and when Remy wasn't interested in his breakfast chicken, I learned that playing eventually leads to eating so now I'm under strict orders to dispose of any mouse that makes an appearance on our dining room rug.
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