Sugar, our loyal but sadistic black and white cat, brings us death presents at an alarming rate. He is such an active killer that it is nothing uncommon for our three year old to go into the garage to see multiple half eaten or mangled moles or chipmunks and calmly tell me, “Mommie…there is another of Sugar’s dead things out here.” Not only is her demeanor calm, but I am also so desensitized to the gore that I, too, calmly walk over to the creature to confirm that it is dead, pick it up by the least chewed limb, and toss into the neighbor’s overgrown yard. If there isn’t a limb left to grab, I will then try to find some other object to scrape it onto in order to toss it into the neighbor’s overgrown yard. Week after week this takes place. It is a running joke among our family and friends that archaeologists may one day excavate our poor neighbor’s yard and assume that it was a horrific killing ground for small rodents, which must have been the result of some religious ritual among the native inhabitants. (Why rodents would be a religious symbol is beyond me, but I imagine it will end up resulting in a cult like explanation for who we were and the rodents will definitely have been representative of some god of fertility)...I digress.
Anyway last week, as Clare and I are leaving for the morning, Sugar runs into the garage with a still-alive-but-soon-to-be-dead-thing (a.k.a. Chipmunk). I wish I could say that this was unusual, but even this is normal. It is literally a game of cat-and-chipmunk, and we calmly step out of his way and of the doomed chipmunk and continue on as if nothing is happening. I do happen to notice as we walk to the driveway that they both run underneath my car (great). I open the door, and briefly think, “I really hope that chipmunk doesn’t run across my foot or jump into the vehicle when I open the door. “ About the same time, I look on the ground and notice that the chipmunk is peeking out from behind the back wheel, watching us. His tiny little head is the only thing we can see and he is breathing heavily. His little eyes plead with us for help. I look away knowing that if it’s not today, then it’ll be tomorrow. Not my Clare, she leans in closer to get a good look at him. The chipmunk is so terrified of what is behind him, Sugar, that he is willing to let the bigger and less toothy thing inch nearer. Clare keeps getting closer and closer to look at it, while the chipmunk remains paralyzed behind the wheel of the car. It is a quiet moment. Finally, she stands up and declares in a rather dignified manner, “Mommie the chickmunk is cute. Tell Sugar not to kill him.” (chickmunk…I know…awww, how precious). “Of course,” I tell her. She had given the empress's’s thumbs up. It would live. From there, she hopped into the backseat with a satisfied smile, the chipmunk ran back under the car, and I buckled her in, knowing that my foot was entirely too close a terrified chipmunk and merciless cat “playing” chase. Thankfully, nothing crawled over my foot or jumped into the car, and Sugar and the chipmunk ran into the yard once I started the car. It was at this point that I heard a little voice and looked in the mirror to see Clare’s wheels turning as she asked, “Actually, what is Sugar doing Mommie? I told you to tell him he couldn't kill the chickmunk” As I backed out of the driveway, I reminded her that Sugar was just playing chase with the silly chipmunk and they were both having a great time. Then I silently prayed, “Dear God, please don’t let that chickmunk be mangled in the garage when she gets home today. Amen.” My neighbor thinks I can talk to my cat too, but that is a story for another day.
