felix magnificat

Stone-cold Mowgli.

I made myself a promise (note, I never made this promise to you) back when I started this blog that I would not write about my pets. I think it’s a good guideline. It can be so dreary to read people who drag on about how their particular little fuzzball is cuter than all his forbears. But my cat has exceeded himself, and I cannot contain my enthusiasm.

Last night I was puttering around my garage, looking for stuff in all the boxes I never did unpack since last April, and cleaning up a bag of birdseed that the mice had raided. These wicked and malevolent creatures had dragged most of the bag out onto the workbench, spreading half-emptied husks over a two-foot-square area, approximately two to three inches deep. They also left a carpet of little black droppings whose density was commensurate with the feast. I immediately checked my poison station. Empty, of course. It had probably been empty a long time. Those darned mice even urinated on my bait station. It was sticky. I didn’t really get wound up. No sense getting mad about it, because I was in it to win it. I had traps, I had poison, I had two cats with all their claws intact.

The older cat has questionable hunting skills. We used to have a pet cockatoo who would flutter his way to the floor now and then, on some fool errand or other, and Emma (the older cat) would stalk him. Once I walked in just as she was darting for him. I yelled at her, and she swerved right past him. I’m not sure, but I think I heard her mutter at the bird as she swept past: “Tag, you’re it…sucker.” But she’s never killed anything. I’ve never seen her kill so much as a bug, despite her great interest in their movements. I think she believes her role is to see things don’t get too out of hand.

But there is a new cat. He is black, fuzzy, friendly, but with great goggly yellow eyes which gaze back at you somewhere between startled and stark raving mad. I call him Mowgli, because he reminds me of the intrepid man-cub from Kipling’s stories. He has never shown discretion when choosing targets for attack. As a wee kitten he would assail Emma, who, at over twice his size, could bat him across the room. He even took on the large dog Beau, much to his toothy delight.

Mowgli wanted to follow me as I headed back into the garage with a recharge for my poison station, so I let him join me. He started prowling around, sniffing stuff, doing the cat predator thing. After I had refilled the poison station, I called to the little guy, but he wasn’t interested. So I left him in the garage, figuring I’d come back and reclaim him in a few minutes. A few minutes later Mowgli was still not interested in coming in. I debated going in and scooping him up, and hauling him into the house, but then decided I’d let him be. Let’s see what he comes up with.

This was very late last night, actually it was early this morning. So I went to sleep for a few hours. I awoke and got some breakfast. I thought about Mowgli. I headed for the garage, and before I got to the door I could hear him mewling, announcing his desire to resume indoor life. I opened the door, and let him in.

Later, this afternoon, I was cruising the garage again, looking for some documents and looking for that little ziplock bag of pencils that I saw the other day. I happened to walk past the place where the mice had had their shindig with my birdseed. There on the bare workbench was a single deceased field mouse. Hmm, I thought. Did my poison already take effect? I thought it took a few days. I went back into the house to get the key for the poison station. Nope, the poison was untouched. I took a closer look at this mouse. Ah, yes, definite signs of the hunt. He played the Hitchhike with the Humans game, and lost. All because of my singularly magnificent cat.

I know that this achievement is nothing remarkable for a cat. Probably most cats will catch mice if given the opportunity. But I can’t help but feel proud of that little feline. It reminds me of a scene from the movie Babe: the pig has just guided all the sheep into their enclosure to win the competition, and the crowd is ecstatic. Farmer Hogget just looks down at his pig and says, “That’ll do, pig, that’ll do.”

What else can I say? I think I’ll give him a title, and I think I’ll let you help. No real rules I guess. It should be ridiculously complimentary. It should be a title appropriate for this instinctive young hunter, unguided as he was by formal training. I await your suggestions…winner gets the mouse.