Nebula was unusually vocal tonight, because apparently that’s how furry psychopaths with murder-mittens get in the spring.
So there he is, stalking back and forth from the back yard to the hallway, talking to us.
“Meow! Meow! Meow! Come check this out! It’s great! It’s fantastic! It’s marvelous!”
Youngest Child comes along and coos, “BABY! How you doing, handsome man–OMG IT’S A LIZARD!!!”
Mate and I automatically pause the movie we’re watching and sit up. “What–wait–is it dead?”
Youngest Child dances around going, “What do I do? What do I do? What–“
“Get a napkin and pick it up!” we cry. “Throw it out in the front planter!”
“Get away from him you murdering freak!” Apparently Nebula did not WANT the lizard stolen from his grasp and taken away.
So ZoomBoy comes out and holds the cat aloft–like, no shit. Aloft. In the air, legs outstretched, reaching for the fuckin’ lizard.
“What do I do?” Youngest Child wails. “What if it’s dead?”
“Then throw it outside to be with the other dead animals in the planter!” Mate and I cry. At this point we’re not getting up to trample the ground where cat and lizard have contended. Youngest Child is already scarred, right? We don’t need to see this.
“What if it’s alive?” they scream.
“Well throw it outside to be with the live ones!” we reply–and remember, ZoomBoy is still bearing the cat aloft, who is batting his murder-mittens int he direction of the lizard because SOMEBODY GIVE HIM BACK HIS LIZARD!
“OMG IT’S ALIVE! AND IT’S MOVING!”
Mate and I almost move at this point–but YC is heading for the kitchen and we’re in the living room and hopefully safe from skittering lizards.
“Get it!” Mate urges helpfully. “You know. Before it gets under the stove.”
“Got it! Outside?”
“YES!” we urge in tandem.
“Are you sure?”
“YES!” And, as they move to send the lizard back with his lizardy brethren, we tell ZoomBoy, “And put the cat down. He’s fine. He was just being a cat.”
Cat is wild-eyed, paws still out, and you can practically read the I REGRET NOTHING caption under his freaked out face.
The lizard is gone, the cat has stalked off, and the offspring have returned to their rooms.
I walk down the hall to find the cat sprawled in front of Youngest Child’s door. I knock and say, “I’m opening your door.”
“Why?”
“Because your cat is staring at it.”
“So?”
“So he’s STARING AT IT. Do you want him to go out and kill again?”
“No. Fine. Just let the little psychopath in here.”
“Well, he likes you. And you don’t resemble a lizard.”
“Fucker.”
“Yes,” I agree, as I open the door for the cat. He stares in, mildly interested, and I leave him to his dance as I walk down the hall.
Yeah. We all know who owns the place. If he drops a dead thing on my pillow as I sleep, there’s going to be screaming in the morning.
