|Boris in rat kill reenactment|
Naturally I yell"what the hell is that," because rodents are known communicators and will often answer when asked a question. Boris, mistakes my question for a "let's play with that," statement and decides it should be closer to me if I am going to experience the true pleasure of playing with it.
It is at that precise moment that "eeeyahhh oh gross, no Boris," bubbles out of my mouth. Then Whiskey decides to join in, and they are both sitting around the creature, which I realized one of them has already killed while I was being Donna Domestic in the house.
Now I have to dispose of it, which is oh so upsetting for a cat who hunted for and gifted me with its kill. Thankfully I have one of those dustpans with a handle that you use while standing up. I sweep the poor thing up oscillating between words of praise to the cats and "get the hell away from it."
I put the rat in a clear plastic trash bag and left it on the porch intending to put shoes on and take it to the trashcan that is outside the yard ready for pickup.
The tea kettle went off, the phone rang and the day was kicking into gear, so I was otherwise busy and lost my focus on the task at hand. Ten minutes later, I was reading Email and heard a plastic bag rustling. I jumped up and sped to the door and found Boris dragging the bag into the house with his teeth, not by the handles, but by the rat at the bottom of the bag.
I wonder how long it will be that every toy mouse in the house freaks me out. Send Xanax.