Our one and only free range cat brought us home a "present" yesterday. My husband caught her trotting toward the back door with a dead bird in her mouth. I know it's just her normal can instincts, but I had no idea we were harboring a killer.
Bob showed up on our back patio in December. We have lots of strays pass by, so we just commented to each other on how small and pretty she was and assumed she'd move on. She camped out for a week straight--all the while mewing and pawing at the window, looking longingly in at our two housecats--before I broke down and put some food out. The next day I went out to see if she would let me pet her. She was all over me with the purring and the canoodling. The next day she came indoors. She's the only one of our brood who can and who is allowed to hop the wall out of our enclosed patio. I'm sure she's hunted before, probably for survival, but now it just seems a little greedy.
My husband picked up the dead bird with a plastic bag, doggie poop style. He then proceeded to tie the handles in a pretty little knot and throw it in our kitchen garbage. ?!?!?!? He seemed put out that I asked him to put it outside.
Anyway, here's Bob's mug:
By the way, we named her Bob before we actually met her. She has no tail...hence, Bob. By the time we found out she was a she, there was no turning back.
And just so the other two don't feel left out, here's Lita (doing a little hunting of her own; in pursuit of the wild camera cord):
and Puck:Those are my furbabies.
Second day of work today. Very long. Very tedious. Very long stretches of new learning with no breaks. These people are speech-language pathologists. They're supposed to understand the physiology of learning. I need a 10-minute break every hour. I got one 15-minute break all day. And I still didn't get my paws on a single patient. Nor did I learn how to gingerly insert a scope into someone's nose and have it come out in their pharynx so I can watch them swallow green-dyed milk. Apparently that takes innumerable workshops and competency training courses. I only got to squint at the software from too far away. Ah well, next week. I know observation is important, I just want to jump in and get my hands dirty. But not my clothes; barium stains like a mofo. I'm happy to explain the intricacies of fiberoptic endoscopic examinations of swallowing to all interested parties. For now, I'll assume you're not interested and ramble at my leisure.
I also found a big fat copy editing job when I got home today. I used to work in publishing, before making the switch to speech pathology, and I still do freelance work for them. Hooray for the money, boo for watching my weekend go down the drain. However, I now have all supplies (except possibly for appropriately-hued thread, for which I haven't yet checked) for all five (God, what is wrong with me?!?) of Jonah's rompers and the three aprons. So maybe I can split up my time tomorrow between sewing, copy editing, and cleaning. And I'll consider a workout if I'm feeling very good.
I haven't been able to face the gym in weeks. After an entire semester of swim, elliptical, lift, swim, elliptical, lift, repeat, I can't bring myself to set foot in there until classes start, which is, fortunately, Monday. In the meantime, my butt is turning to lard before my eyes. My hips runneth over. It doesn't help that I ate a huge meal from Panda Express the other night (that's right, double orange chicken and most of my steamed rice). It was very disconcerting to note that my husband and I were the only two non-morbidly obese people in the place. I'm not remotely making fun of overweight people; I'm saying you'd think I'd make note of the cause-and-effect implication and high-tale it out of there. But no. Instead, I ordered an egg roll. Likewise tonight: you are what you eat? I'm a Grande Burrito.