I could tell by the look on Charles’ face when I got out of the shower one morning that something was amiss.
Charles has the guiltiest of consciousnesses of anyone I know four legged our not. Charles could teach a college level advanced program on feeling guilty if he could communicate coherent words. Something was up. No garbage all over the floor however, no pee, no poop. I figured it was a flashback to that time he ate the Christmas Pannetonne.
I trotted out of the bathroom and into the laundry room to grab my t-shirt out of the dryer where, there sat Gargamel right in front of the washing machine. Odd, I thought. Gargamel is never in the laundry room, like, ever. Then I looked closer. Gargamel wasn’t alone. Laying in front of him was a pile of fur that wasn’t his colour. I zoomed in closer with my contact-less eyeballs to get a better view. And there lay a rabbit. A dead one.
I will admit at this point I ran out of the laundry room screaming at Gargamel asking him why he would do such a thing. Like I was expecting a response. Then I realized I had recently opened all my windows and my neighbour was outside watering his flowers. Hello! Yep, I’m that lady next door. I promptly settled down and came to remember that Gargamel was still in the laundry room with the rabbit. I could only imagine what was happening now.
I poked my head around the corner trying not to look at what may be awaiting my return. With closed eyeballs I yelled at the cat to get the hell out of there, and get the (fuck) outside. He glared at me like he was possessed with the spirit of this thing. He wouldn’t budge. Well I’m not going to go in there and get in the middle of it!
After I removed myself and had another quiet meltdown/powow, called several girlfriends who all squealed “Ewwww!”, game-planned on what I should be doing about the massacre that was happening at that very moment, Gargamel emerged from the laundry room licking his chops. His demon possessed look was gone, he was back to being the sweet, loving kitty who we (used to) snuggle with in our beds. I promptly threw him in the garden outside and secured any doors he may have entered with his new/old friend.
I then had a chance to look at the damage. The foyer was obviously where the attack happened. It looked like a full blown crime scene. Blood spatter on the walls, smears on the hardwood, pools over by my favourite flip flops…blood all over my favourite flip flops. Damn.
I followed the trail to the bunny’s sad ending in front of my washing machine, where he lay. Dead and headless.
My cat eats brains, I thought to myself then I wondered about how they digest the skulls and if that was good for their tummies. Then I said “I’m sorry” aloud to to the bunny, as if it made a difference, but the thought of this thing fighting for it’s life from a evil predator that I happen to own on top of my flip flop made me feel somewhat sad and responsible. I covered him with a garbage bag and went to the store to buy a gallon of bleach.
I really wanted to wait until the other half got home to get him to clean up the bunny. But then I remembered I made a “no excuses” pact with myself at at the beginning of the week. It was supposed to apply to business and new opportunities but really and unfortunately it kind of applies to dead headless animals that happen to find their way into my home too. I sucked it up and cleaned it up. Then I did an extra round of bleach cleaning for good measure and threw out my flip flops.
I learned a few things from this:
1. Life has a funny way of holding you accountable for the things you say.
2. Cats may be evil after all.
3. I can use the “I cleaned up a dead animal!” rebuttal when any of my family members whines about doing the dishes.
4. Keep your doors closed.
5. If Charles is looking guilty, something bad has happened.