Clinton's Journal

Cat ownership
Cat ownership has its own unique problems...

My cats are Kirby and Hoover. Kirby's large, grey, fluffy with an attitude akin to a drag queen. Pet him the wrong way and he's offended. Rumple his fur and he'll spend hours preening it. Friendly enough, but too proud for you.

Hoover's a miniature Kirby in looks, but completely the opposite in temperment. Timid, shy, but *desperate* for affection. She doesn't really care which way you rub her fur, so long as you do.

Neither cat goes outside. Kirby wants to, but isn't allowed. Hoover's scared to death of "outside" and practically wets herself if you take her out.

.....

So today, I decide that I want my bed in the middle of the room, instead of the corner. So I'm reaching under it pulling things out and feel something unfamiliar. Something...what's this...? Lift the bedskirt and peer into the darkness....

Dead bird.

For the first time I can remember as an adult, I ran screaming from the room like a little girl. Or well, at least I felt like it. I may not have actually. I'm not sure. If I didn't I don't think I could fool a polygraph. There were no witnesses to confirm or deny this, so that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

It was some kind of sparrow. A rather large one, too. It hadn't decayed much so it had to have passed recently maybe in the last week or so.

The working theory is this: the bird got into the house somehow. Kirby (the only one of the two that I can picture "hunting") killed it and dragged it under the bed. The bed's their hiding place when thunderstorms roll through.

Kirby was interrogated. He's pleading the Fifth.

That's all I got.

Tonight was spent on borderline obsessive-compulsively cleaning my room.