Atticus is known for his hunting skills.
Bill and I understand, he is a somewhat feral cat.
As long as the critters he kill stay outside.
He had a streak of carrying dead catches to the back door. His chest puffed with pride. Almost as if he was trying to tell me that he could take care of me while Bill was away.
It was almost cute, except for the dead bird lying by the back door.
I wonder if he goes through spurts.
It's been quite awhile since there's been obvious carnage in our backyard.
That changed as I was walking to my car the other day.
Survival of the fittest, we say.
Then, he watched him chase a mouse.
And then, on another night, another mouse.
Then, last night as I finished washing dishes, I decided to sweep the kitchen floor. I walked into the hallway to grab the Swiffer. That's when I saw it.
The pile of cat puke.
Complete with the body of an undigested mouse.
Not just parts of the mouse (like Heather W.'s cats, they're smart, they only eat the parts that won't make them puke... maybe we should let Atticus hang out with them and learn a few things), no. This was the entire mouse.
Dead. In a pile of puke. In the hallway. All cards point to Atticus.
That would make a fun version of Clue... excuse me while I go write a letter to Parker Brothers, or whichever company owns the game.
Editor's note: this is one of those times I'm almost certain you are happy that I don't post pictures in every blog...