Murder at the Menke’s. A Cat-astrophe!

I needn’t belabor nature’s harsh pecking order. You know it, I know it. We can choose to close our eyes to the gore, to the unflinching honesty of it all. We can TURN THE CHANNEL. QUICK. TURN THE CHANNEL, dammit!

Why men love to linger, while surfing channels to utter distraction, on the bucolic scene of baby quail bobbing along behind their mother, is beyond me. YOU KNOW THEY ARE GOING TO DIE! TURN THE CHANNEL!

And yet.

They don’t.

So, we are forced to either watch or get up and leave.

Recently, I’ve noticed that Dave isn’t even accidentally watching nature shows – he is actively seeking them out on YouTube. He even laughs sometimes and says, “Here, you gotta watch this.” And I’m like, “No, I don’t. I don’t need to.”

“It’s funny. Watch it.”

And I proceed to watch a Rhino peacefully grazing alongside a couple of wild boars, suddenly scoop one of the boars up with his tusk, goring him. He flies high, high into the air and lands on flat his back from a height of about 15 feet. And the movie cuts out.

“What happened? Is he dead?”

“I don’t know. It’s that funny? Rhinos are tough.”

And I’m left to wonder: is he dead? Is he suffering? Why did the Rhino do that? Why did the movie cut out? That poor wild boar…

It affects the rest of my day. Or the rest of my night. I have thought of that wild boar often since then…

Until I had something new to consume that space in my brain. If there was ever a misguided thought that cats are adorable, cuddly pets to be simply loved and protected, think again. They are the domesticated animal equivalent of the homicidal sociopath. The killer no one ever suspects. “He was always our nicest neighbor. Always helpful and kind.” …while he quietly racked up heads in his basement.

Cats are like that. You lull yourself into thinking, “not my cat” only to walk into a scene like this:

A murder scene.

For, no other description fits.

This wasn’t a cat eating a bird.

This was a death scene. This blood spattered high on the wall, the victim clearly pleading for his life.

I ask you: What in the Sam Hill was going on here?

Terror. Carnage. A miniature CSI scene.

What poor little — or not so little — animal met it’s end on Dave’s beautiful new garage floor?!

I think this one know’s and he isn’t talking.

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Comments

  1. Michelle says

    You have some mean ass cats! I’d be pissed about cleaning up the mess. Take it outside boys . . .

  2. says

    *urp* That’s a… lot of … *gulp* blood. I’ve found dead critters, but never the horrifying signs of carnage. My cats are more of the, “HEY! This is the best toy EVAR! You smack it and it squeaks then RUNS and I chase it – WOO! *smack* chase *smack, SMACK*… hey, why did it stop moving? *nudge* Eh, guess I’ll just leave it there. *walks away*.”

  3. Sharon says

    That’s one BAD cat!! I’d say you’re safe now from invasions of weasels and stoats and big, big beavers, and hippos, and lions, and . . . . WOW! I’m impressed!

  4. Mary says

    What. In. The. World. Was. Murdered? Were. There. Any. Remains? Any. Identifying. Parts. Left. Behind?

  5. says

    Yes! both cat pics are mine. I took them right after the discovery of the carnage: Dory (black) and Mooshie (black and white). Yellow eyes are real. I actually think the killer is Ollie Cat, but Morgan would cry if I denounced her baby.

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