The Watcher Cat

The Watcher Cat

Sunday, February 22, 2015

Battle, Murder and Sudden Death

(Buster T. Katt [foreground] and Giles T. Katt, in 2010)

Odd that I was writing about the Great Litany just a few minutes ago, because we've had, in the immortal line of the Rite I version, "battle, murder and sudden death" here tonight--for I hasten to add, a mouse.

A mouse. A wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, the hell he was. We heard some mously piping behind the TV upstairs (that is, in the living room adding our bedroom), and gazed around at our cats. Four more somnolent, disinterested creatures you never saw. Ethan yawned. Betty concurred. Then Giles investigated, and hope bloomed. He then returned to me, and said with his eyes: "Mouse back there. Good luck with that."

Even Elspeth the Mighty Huntress, who once brought down a bat on the wing, did not stir.

I was, it seemed, the last bulwark of defense between this beastie and the bedroom. La Caterina was not thrilled.

I pulled out my trusty rapier (yes, I have one. Don't try this at home. I'm a trained, er, amateur).

As I prepared a lunge into the space (believe me, my heart was bleeding for the poor creature, but what is one to do?), our cat Buster, who has been these past seven months ill and gaunt (though recently reviving a little bit), walked slowly over. Too thin, too frail. Fifteen years old, like all of the others, except Elspeth who's fourteen. What would he--

--oh. He's really in there [piping noise-don'tthink too much about it]. Buster's lithe, if gaunt, frame pushes further in. And out saunters Buster, with a large field mouse (looked him up on Google Image) in his mouth. The mouse struggled, but Buster had this. He took the mouse downstairs, through the kitchen, to the front door, and finished him quickly. (That surprised me a bit.) Then, making sure the mouse was dead. He looked over at me. I disposed of the remains (no blood, thanks, Buster works cleanly), and while sad for the poor mouse--wrong place and time, laddie--rewarded my cat for his work.

Fifteen years old, thin as hell, the fire still burns.

Buster remains a cat among cats.

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