Cats are sociopaths. They have no concern for the feelings of others. They’ll rub on you, but only when it suits them.
And, like Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy before them, they murder for sport. We were witness to that tonight.
Kristy was just finishing an episode of Girls, and I was trying to download a book sample. I heard the noise of my cat tussling, and I thought, Good. That fat-ass needs the exercise. Then, my wife screamed:
“Oh, my god! Ohmygodohmygod! Oliver has a mouse!”
Sure enough, my ten year-old tuxedo was batting at something, lowering his head at the object and taking it in his teeth. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a plastic bag, and scooped up the still-warm rodent carcass, disposing of it in the trash can outside, per Kristy’s instructions.
The killer was still laying on his side at the crime scene when I returned, using his tongue to clean the blood off his paws. I had helped him hide the victim’s body; now, I used cleaning spray to erase any trace that a homicide had occurred.
Kristy, meanwhile, was leaping from foot to foot, shaking her hands in front of her the way you would if you had just washed your hands in a public restroom that had no paper towels. She was laughing, sort of. She appeared to be having a nervous breakdown.
“Holy shit! Holy shit! We have mice in our home, where we eat and sleep. How can I sleep now?”
“We don’t have mice. We had a mouse, but this cold-blooded motherfucker–” (I indicated Oliver, who was now stretched out to sleep) “–solved that problem.”
“Oh, that poor mouse! I can still see his tiny black eyes open and staring up at me.”
“So Oliver should have let him live?”
“No. I just…I don’t know. I’m so creeped out!” Her spasmodic dance had slowed down considerably.
“The cat is a hero.”
“A mouse trespassed in your home. The cat said, ‘Not on my watch,’ and he handled security for you.”
She stopped her nervous movement altogether. “Good kitty, Oliver…”
“I’m glad we were down here, though.”
“Just think, If Oliver had a whole night with that mouse, you would have come down in the morning to find that poor little bastard’s entrails strewn all over the living room.”
She began hopping again, and between her nervous panic-laughs, I heard her shout, “I fucking hate you! Ahhhhh!“