So we’ve got six—count ‘em, SIX—pussycats in our house. I’m still the only priest in central Ohio who runs a cat house. And with six pussycats in the house, guess who visited us this week? Mice. Three of ‘em to be exact.
You would think with six pussycats in the house, word would get out via mice social media, Squeaker, not to visit here. You would also think that with six pussycats in the house, any mouse who stepped foot in the house would be an instant appetizer, no?
But not this house. Not our pussycats. No, our pussycats invited the mice in and offered them drinks, cigarettes, and floozie mice women. They set up a welcome tent for the little varmints. Apparently we’ve treated our pussycats so well and fed them so much that they’ve gotten fat and lazy and have forgotten that they are pussycats. Pussycats are supposed to eat mice, not party with them.
All except one of our pussycats, that is.
Last night Puddy Tat demonstrated he’s the only one earning his keep. He’s the only mouser in the bunch because he bagged the two remaining mice (my wife discovered the first mouse and threw him out on his, um, tail). The Tats carried the little buggers around in his mouth squeaking and all, real proud of himself. But he wasn’t quite sure what to do with each of them once he caught them. So we had to take them from him and throw them out, alive and kicking.
So let this be a warning to all you cat owners. Send them to pussycat boot camp periodically. Make sure they remember who they are so they can do their duty when the time comes. Otherwise, you’ll be guilty of turning your pussycat into a wussycat, just like we have. Don’t let that happen to you, binky.