I was poking around the sunny vege garden on Friday when I noticed I wasn’t alone. A black rat was also sauntering and sampling, grasping and nibbling on salad greens.
In fright, I leaped into the nearest room and snatched the cat from the bed. She sat where I planted her on the flagstone, dazed and befuddled and ten inches from the rat, who carried on munching. Cat stared blindly at rat. Rat stared at spinach. Then cat’s head jerked as her nose lifted and she sniffed left, right, straight ahead, then — ah! She raised her front end and fell on the rat. I turned away in shame.
Could I not have left the rat to its indolent vegetarian meal (and backyard breeding programme)?
Anyway, rat gave cat the slip and half an hour later cat was still weaving in and out of the beans, lettuces, spuds and long grass, hunting. At day’s end she ate jellimeat.
In the morning, though, I found her gift outside the bedroom door.
Of course, the cat might not have committed the crime. The rat might have fallen from a biplane. I sure hope not. I hope it wasn’t this rat.
Rich pickings from the blogroll this week:
Claire commits alchemy with Emily Dickenson and a cheese grater.
Talking of rats, Isabel’s miracle cat-in-exile makes a second comeback.
Helen analyses a healthy writing group.