K-I-TT-Y, You Ain't Got No Alibi

We are down to three cats.

You might think three cats are enough for anybody. Three cats are as good as a feast. But we were a five-cat family for many years. Occasionally, a six-cat family, but thieves and sickness took their toll. Now that we are down to three cats, it seems like we have no cats at all.

That might be because we don't like these cats.

Our best cats are gone. Genius the Cat, the big orange-striped fellow belonging to Genius the Boy, passed away last month. Snuggles the fluffy white calico was taken in by neighbors. We were too afraid of them to ask for our cat back. Which leaves only the three mailbox cats that Genius made us adopt and vaccinate and give their very special operations. But the fact remains, we don't really like these cats.

Sure, now that Genius the Cat is gone, two of these three think we will like them more. Just today, that tan-striped one, Simba, laid there on the porch, looking like Genius, making me feel all tender-hearted until he turned his big ol' pie-pan head to look at me. THEN he had the nerve to climb up on the porch rail while I was tossing fried rice to the chickens, and try to rub his fat head on my shirt as if I might pet him. Did you know turkeys really love fried rice? Oh...the cat. I just don't like him. I'll feed him if his roasting pan of cat kibble is empty. But I don't like him. Look at him up there when we still had our Snuggles, tormenting her, the bully!

Then there's Dusty, the gray calico, who likes to run under the garage door as it's closing, making it stop and go back up. I think she owes us a spring. She will sidle up to me at the side porch, acting like she wants to be petted, then squirm away if I reach for her. Good riddance!

And that leaves us with Stockings, who eats his feelings, having been referred to as a girl for the first several months of life, until we took him to be spayed, which was impossible, but we still had his nuts cut off. Oh. Pardon my French. Stockings. He has such a pretty face. He doesn't even pretend to like us. As long as he can strap on the feedbag, he's good.

Now here's the topic that really brought me to the keyboard today. A gift was left on our porch overnight. A gift that I discovered this morning, while I was feeling a bit queasy from some bug I must have picked up at the doctor's office Thursday, since I haven't been eating week-old leftovers for lunch this week. A gift.

As much as my sweet, sweet Juno loves me, I'm pretty sure she did not leave me this gift. Ann is timid with tiny things that scurry around her feet, so she's off the suspect list. I am certain that Stockings didn't exert himself to catch this treat for me, because first of all, he doesn't like me, and secondly, he would have eaten the whole thing himself. Which leaves Dusty and Simba. Uh huh. The pet-tease or the taunter.

Case closed. Simba probably still had mouse on his breath while he was trying to rub his head on my shirt.