Chilling. (And icky.)

There are awful sounds during the killings.

I paused, a puff of popcorn halfway to my lips, and frowned earlier this week. I tipped my head up, gazing at the ceiling of my basement, and muted the television so I could hear the noise if it was repeated. It wasn’t and I soon shrugged and nibbled on buttery goodness before offering a bite to Chienne.

“Oh,” I said when realization dawned a moment later. There was a thud when Sprout pounced on the floor above my head and I realized the sound I’d heard had been his cry of warning and pleasure before yet another mouse met his demise. I wrinkled my nose, disturbed, and put the popcorn away as my appetite fled.

Even knowing there was a dead creature in the house, I yipped with alarm when I realized Sprout had carried the corpse to rest on the landing at the bottom of the stairs. I took the long way, moving through the bathroom and laundry room to approach the stairs from the opposite direction, skirting the rodent while keeping my eyes carefully averted. I returned with the trusty broom and dustpan I keep for mouse removal and made the steps safe for climbing once again.

“Are you kidding me?” I groused last night as I sat at my desk, peering at figures and making sure the presentation was as stunning as possible. I heard my stripey cat emit the same chilling sound and shuddered with sympathy for the mouse and dread of cleaning up the results of this evening exercise. The bell Sprout now wears around his neck makes the event even more grotesque, the happy jingle at odds with the murderous actions of he who wears it.

Yet I did what I typically do when I find something bothersome – ignore it as long as possible.

“Done?” I asked the cat as he moved into the office, an edge of irritation in my voice. My emotion of choice shifted quickly to alarm when I realized the mouse’s tail dangled limply as Sprout carried the small, gray body toward where I sat in my chair.

“No, no, no!” I screeched. “Do not bring that toward me! Gross! Icky! Ew!” Having scampered to the entry foyer during my frantic refusal of my feline’s gift, I glanced over to see him move haughtily toward the stairs, arranging himself regally on the second one from the bottom while the mouse lay in the middle of the floor. I sighed and returned to the room with mouse-removal tools in hand, but there was something about how the creature lay there, frozen in the grip of death and with his tiny paws curled into defenseless claws.

Dropping the dustpan on the floor, I approached the cat with an angry stride that failed to impress him. I scooped him up and stomped upstairs, placing him in the toy room where he typically sleeps the day away and closing the door firmly, locking him inside. I wrote to Friend, sharing my horror, disgust and irritation and was gently scolded for refusing the gift the cat had bestowed upon me.

I told her I was not going to praise his hunting skills and eat a dead mouse, regardless of what feline protocol demanded, but agreed that it was better that he left the bodies in obvious places rather than tucking them somewhere to rot. Sighing with defeat, I released him from the bedroom, receiving a dark glare for my efforts, and went to fetch another dead mouse.

Such is life these days, I'm afraid. I can shriek and stomp and sulk all I want, but it changes little in the end. It saves time to just put my head down and dispose of the task at hand.