I am NOT sympathetic. I know you think that it was all my fault because you are, indeed, a cat, but no. This time you are NOT pinning it on me.
Do you remember that night earlier in the week? The night that you woke me up? Don’t try to deny it. You know you do.
It was around midnight, we were all asleep and you started crying you heart out.
No. Stop right there. It wasn’t singing. It was crying. I have two children. I know what a tantrum cry sounds like.
So there we were, midnight, me formerly asleep, the rest of the family still asleep, and you hitting the high notes. At the foot of my bed.
Remember how I first begged you to keep quiet? Nicely?
And do you remember how you continued lamenting at full volume?
Do you remember that I became so concerned about your well-being that I got up and turned on the lights to make sure that you weren’t injured? After all, we do have some rough characters in the neighbourhood. That black and white “friend” of yours that you keep inviting into our house for fights is bad business. I always said so, but did you listen?
OK, OK, we can talk about him later. But you know what they say about girls who are seen around with tomcats like that one…..
So do you remember how I got up? And found you?
And do you remember how upset I was when I found out that you were tantruming because dead mice don’t play anymore? Even when you slap them only lightly like <so> or sing at them like <♫♪♪> they still don’t want to play after YOU, dear Cat, killed them.
And do you remember that I had to then get rid of the very much dead mouse by myself, since Wouter was asleep? I threw it out of the window and you went after it. And I thought you were going to do whatever you do with dead mice – o u t s i d e.
Now. Remember all of that?
Because today the children brought the laundry to the kitchen and put it in the washing machine. I was so proud of them for actually doing something I asked them. They collected all the dirty clothes from the laundry basket – by themselves – and even sort of sorted.
I was so proud.
Life was good.
Until I removed the last of the laundry from the machine. The underwear, the socks, the little bits that I scooped up without looking at it because it is an industrial sized top loader machine and I have to hang half into it to reach the bottom. And then I grabbed up the very last sock (very small – I can’t remember the children having grey socks) and guess what? It wasn’t a sock.
It was a dead mouse that you, Ms Cat, decided to put in safe storage. In my full laundry basket. Probably that very same mouse that you retrieved in the vain hope that it might somehow come back to life if it could just have a little rest on a nice soft pile of clothes. The clothes that the children bundled together without looking at what they were bundling.
Dear Cat. I do NOT appreciate a hand full of dead mouse.
And yes, I flung it. Quite far indeed.
And yes, I did the Woman Finds Mouse ballet.
And yes, I took a step backward during my dance.
And yes, I stepped onto you food bowl and the Friskies went flying.
And now you have to hunt (pardon me for snickering) around the kitchen for your supper.
I’m not feeling your pain. You brought it on yourself. Now deal with it.
And make sure you get the piece of Friskies over there.
The least you can do is clean up where you made me spill.
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