“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
I didn’t even have to turn around to know that was Sylvia speaking, in her usual accusatory voice.
“Madame, I’ll have you know that this is finest yard bird available in this area you call a neighborhood.”
Sylvia wrinkled her nose and continued. “Don’t you give me attitude, Mr. Whiskers! You know how I feel about bringing dead animals into this house.”
I fixed her with a level-2 stare and slowly licked my paw, pausing a moment before responding.
“As your housecat, and as your friend, let me assure you that I am well aware of your human sensibilities when it comes to bringing fresh kill into our humble abode. But my dear, you must understand, Cat does not live by discount cans of ‘Captain’s Feast’ and dry-as-a-bone Dime Store kibble. To maintain this glossy coat you admire so much, I perforce must imbibe on supplemental sustenance such as our recently departed friend, Chirpy, here.”
Sylvia nodded, but she clearly remained displeased.
“I see. And does your need to eat birds require that you store the carcass atop my bed pillow, Mr. Whiskers.”
I looked at her with a mix of pity and disdain.
“I can only say in my defense, that I was driven by my pride in accomplishing the difficult task of snaring this avian prey, and my admittedly juvenile need to seek your parental pride and approval of my efforts. Since you seem understandably offended by my overly dependent urge to curry your favor, I shall certainly decease from doing so in the future.”
Sylvia sighed, and her expression softened.
“No, no, Mr. Whiskers, I, I understand.”
I ceased my licking and gave her the rare squint of approval.
“No hard feelings, Sylvia.”
‘Humans,’ I thought. So easily manipulated.
Then, I laughed to myself as she scratched my head with affection.
Just wait until she finds the mouse in her slipper.