killing the beast

I discovered something about my cats, a minor discovery actually, when I found a small dead mouse this morning on the floor of the room where I feed them.

Of course, cats are supposed to kill mice, but I had no evidence that any of my cats would actually do it. Two of them are middle-aged, the other is elderly, all have no front claws, and they have lived their lives inside the house looking out. Deprived of the outside world, they have formed their lives within the confines of human rooms.

The dead mouse was intact -- in college, a roommate's cat left a beheaded rat at our doorstep one night and nearly stepping on it, I was quite startled. But this little mouse lay in one piece. I assume its neck was broken but didn't look too closely. Franklin the dog could kill a mouse, but he is kept out of this room by a children's gate. I assume the elderly cat didn't do this since she is too lost in her sleep to notice anything else. That leaves the two younger cats, a fat tabby and a sleek tortoise. Our twins, we call them, since we got them at age one, their third owners. They are not littermates.

Both of them came into the room while I cleaned the litter boxes. The torty's little cries, which I usually interpret asam I pretty, won't you pet me, am I pretty? now sounded like I'm the one who killed the beast. The tabby just purred and made a look as if he was responsible.

I scooped the mouse up and cleaned the litter boxes. I have a mouser.