Huge mouse in her mouth, just as proud as a peacock begging for me to let her in. You must be high Clarie, I am not letting you bring that in my house. So she waits... and waits... and waits. She puts it down, walks away... waits... picks it back up. All the time I am freaking. I can't help but keep thinking this is God's diet plan for me. If Atkins and South Beach aren't going to work, he's just going to make my ass get smaller by sending dead mice to me every mealtime. It is working, I will have to say.
Well, I finally get her in the house minus the prey. All is well. Heroic husband comes in and disposes of said mouse. Of course not without a helping of "you are such a girl... " comments. Whatever honey, I can take your smack, I just can't take that 3 inches of mouse you got in your hand. But we are all good, until....
Fast forward to 2 hours later, outside garage doors open, cat outside and my daughter opens the door to the garage. Can you guess what happens next? Can ya, can ya? I bet you can! Yeah, the cat FINALLY got her way. After 3 tries she brings one of those damn dead mice INTO my house! Into my dining room, and I swear she was smiling. No kidding, there was a Cheshire, shit eating grin on that cat's face! So as I start gagging and reaching for the phone to call the realtor. Because really, how do you live in a house that has had a dead mouse laying in it? My husband uses words the children shouldn't hear and my daughter is screaming, "It's still alive!" (Which, thank goodness, it was not.) It was not a pretty sight. I say this because the whole scene caused my son to just stand there in amazement wondering what the hell happened to his family.
Well, again, heroic husband got the mouse out. This time without any snide comments directed at me. And the cat, you ask,well,...the cat is on house arrest until further notice.