My Girlie-Girl Side Was Showing

When I was living with my First Cat, Isobel, I knew next to nothing about cats. I knew that she was a cat, and that was next to nothing. I had to take her to the vet to even find out that she was a girl. But we settled into a nice routine, and life was good. Until Isobel decided that I was not contributing sufficiently to the household.

When a cat sees you as an equal, they bring you their kills to share. If a cat thinks that you're an idiot, they bring you LIVE creatures so that YOU can learn to kill them. Isobel started off bringing me dead things, including a white-wing dove that she left underneath my coffee table. I didn't discover that until I hit the poor dead bird with my foot, and I am sure that Isobel got quite a bit of enjoyment watching me hop around with a roiling case of the heebie-jeebies.

Then Isobel started bringing me live things--lizards, toads, small birds, a gigantic cockroach, etc. She would come to the door, meowing until I opened it, then she would walk in and drop her prize. I try to pretend like I'm a tough chick, and when I was single I handled all these creepy-crawly things by myself. I am embarrassed to say this now, but I acted just like all those ridiculous girlie-girl stereotypes. I would squeal hysterically, jump on the couch, run around waving my arms in the air, and generally have a conniption. (I am not casting aspersions on girlie-girls, but that has never been descriptive of my personality.)

The neighbors likely thought I was being murdered, but all I was doing was trying to safely catch whatever critter Isobel had dropped and herd it out the door. Well, except for the cockroach--I pounded that thing so hard that it separated into individual atoms(I have a phobia, and it makes me wacky). Isobel would sulk for days when I would release her prisoners, as if she despaired of my ability to feed myself if she weren't around. My girlie-girl spaz-out was a completely involuntary response on my part, and once I calmed down, I always hoped that nobody saw me flailing about in my apartment.

And for many, many years, my secret was safe. Even the person who knows me best, my husband, had no idea.

Until last night.

I looked outside on our patio and saw our cat Zena heading our way*. She had something in her mouth and a determined look in her eye, which flashed me back to Isobel. I said a very bad word and rushed outside. I had to chase Zena around for a couple of minutes, but I got her to drop what was in her mouth, scooped her up and threw her in the house.

Then I looked down.

It was a dead mouse. On my patio. A dead mouse.

I did what most people do in these situations.

"EEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!"

Yep. I went into full-on girlie-girl mode, screaming, running around, and just completely losing my damn mind over that dead mouse. I was so completely hysterical that I didn't even realize that I was in my backyard.

Until I saw my neighbor out on his patio, watering the grass. And another neighbor grilling. And a bunch of kids playing on their trampoline.

Even that German Shepherd, who never stops barking, was silently staring at me, mouth agape.

I shivered, still feeling those heebie-jeebies, and 'calmly' walked back into my house. I took a deep breath and nicely asked my husband to please go outside and dispose of the mouse carcass. He did it, but he teased me unmercifully about it.

If anyone asks, I'm going to say that I had a bee down my shirt.



*We don't 'let' Zena outside. She usually gets out before we even notice, because she is that fast. Luckily, she knows where we live.