Not Quite An American Tale

Our cat Wesley is a killer. When we first brought him home from the Humane Society we pretended he was a lazy house cat and kept him indoors for about a year. But once we moved from an apartment to our house and Wesley could see the outdoors, he started to dart outside faster than we could try to stop him (which was usually by wedging his head against the door frame with our leg while carrying 10 shopping bags. )We finally gave up and he's now an outdoor cat. He loves to be outside at night tormenting the birds and mice. I don't like it, but I have come to terms with Wesley's dual nature...part ruthless killer, part sweet lap cat who loves to snuggle up to the kids and eat his Friskies from a china bowl.

Last year there was a veritable Caribana-esque parade of dead mice and birds that wound up on our doorstep and driveway, but this year has been quite a bit less. Well, except for that harrowing incident where we were moving a wooden playhouse that was sitting in our carport to our yard. When we picked up the the playhouse, lo and behold, there was a veritable graveyard of mice carcasses inside where it would appear the mice were able to crawl in and die in peace while Wesley was too big to get inside.

Since then, the dead animal parade has been a bit less. Not sure why...but it's good. No evidence of bird killing and only a couple of mice have turned up in the driveway but were quickly disposed of before Kieran could see them. Until, that is, the other day...

We were heading out and loading the kids into the van. Kieran is lingering at the edge of the driveway while I buckle Kaya into the seat. I tell him to hurry up and then I realize what he is so enamoured with....the large dead mouse practically at his feet.

"Look Mommy!" he squeals excitedly.

I am, of course, instinctively grossed out and cannot hide my disgust. "Yuck! Don't touch it!!!"

Kieran looks up at me quite surprised. Clearly, he doesn't understand why I sound so...afraid. After all, mice in his world are quite removed from reality. To him, they all take ballet class, or are detectives, or have Grandma's who bake them chocolate chip cookies. They are not disease carrying vermin that make your mother scream in terror nor are they murdered by your own beloved house pet.

He doesn't really know what to do, but he looks at me sadly and says: "I think he wants his Mommy."

Seizing the opportunity to avoid any sort of discussion about death, I say quite loudly so Eric can hear. "Yes! He wants his mommy and when we get back from the store, I'm sure your DADDY will MAKE SURE that the mousey gets back to his MOTHER so he can go to his bed and sleep THERE. "

Kieran was satisfied with this and climbed happily into the van. He mentioned several times at the store that he wanted to go home and see the "mousey" (which suddenly turned into going home to see the "bunny" but I can see how he would be confused. They all dress the same and go to the same school).

Anyway, Daddy did help the mouse find his mommy (well, as long as his mommy lives under the hedges 10 feet away) and Kieran is none the wiser.

Crisis averted. For now.