Zookeeper

So, I wake up yesterday to the dog nudging my chin. Poor thing has the skitters because I gave in to her pitiful face the day before and gave her a giant wad of chicken skin. I stumble out of bed and slide my feet into my flip flops only to find a mangled, dead mole lying on the floor next to it. I know it’s a mole because it’s one intact flipper-hand is up in the air waving forebodingly as if to say, “Guess what kind of morning you’re about to have?” No doubt a gift from one of my three cats (we have a cat door so they occasionally bring living toys inside during the night).

“Dewie! There’s an effing dead mole on the floor.”

“What?” She comes in the bedroom from the kitchen. “How did I miss that?”

“Huh. I can’t begin to fathom.”

Scout nudges me again, “Brrr wow rrrr.” Oh yeah, the dog has to slam. I let the dog out while Dewie disposes of the recently deceased mole. Upon returning back to the house I am greeted by Myron who is pacing and crying at the top of his little feline lungs. He must have brought in the mole. Normal human ears would hear, “YEEEEEOOOOOWWWWLLLLLLL!” but roughly translated it sounds more like, “Where the hell’s my mole?! Where the hell’s my mole?!”

Soon enough the big one, Duncan joins in. “Yeah, where the hell’s his mole?!”

Dewie pops her head out of the office, “Do they have food?”

“Yeah, the kind from the store. Apparently they wanted wild game this morning.”

Dewie looks at them, “Shut. Uuuuuup!” Just like that. Short “shut,” long “up.” Huh. Helpful.

I give Myron a congratulatory pat on the head and then one for Duncan even though I know his intention was to steal the mole and start a fight and they both quiet down for about 15 seconds. I grab Richard and head for the laptop. I just settle in when Sawyer, the last cat jumps up on the couch and tries to get between me and the computer while simultaneously gouging the blood out of my thighs with her incessant kneading. I scratch her head and gently say, “Sawyer, please stop, I’m busy.” Knead, knead, knead. “Please?!” Then my hand flies off the mouse, Scout is once again nudging me. “Already girl? Geez.” Knead, knead, knead. “Enough with the kneady-pokes!  #$%@!” Nudge, nudge, nudge. Where the hell’s my mole? Yeah, where the hell’s his mole? Knead, where, nudge, the hell, knead, is my, nudge, mole? Nudge. Where? Knead. Where?

“THAT’S IT, EVERYONE OUTSIDE! EVERY. LAST. ONE.”