Sure, she might look sweet and innocent here, but, deep down, she’s a predator and she used to spend hours hunting in the
jungle backyard. She’d bring home her “prey” and drop it at our feet. I would shout “No, Mercedes! No dead animals in the house!” before the Husband would step in and remind me that those dead birds and lizards were gifts.
“Right,” I’d say, “Some gift.” I knew all along her intention was to scare the hell outta me.
One day, our predator fell ill. A four-day hospital stay and twenty-five hundred dollars (!!!) later, she came home, a partially shaved back the only thing to show for her trouble. Oh, AND HER LIFE.
For a week after,
me and the Husband had the distinct pleasure of taking her temperature. Rectally. Which is so not what I signed up for when we agreed to adopt this feisty feline.
It was then we decided enough’s enough. They’re staying inside from now on. To this day, I wouldn’t call her an “indoor cat” so much as an “I’m just waiting for the moment you slip up and accidentally leave the door open long enough for me to escape” cat.
In the past two years, we’ve developed a routine.
I come home. She’s waiting at the door.
I make my way into the bedroom to change clothes. She’s waiting at the door.
I go into the kitchen, empty the dishwasher. She’s waiting at the door.
I finally take a moment to push open the blinds and open the sliding glass door. She stands at the screen, her ears perked, her nose twitching, at least able to smell the jungle, just imagining all the poor, defenseless creatures she could be torturing.
If only she wasn’t trapped inside with the humans.