mouse | Isobel (and Cat)'s Blog

So there I was last night commenting a trifle smugly on Sophie Scott’s blog about her hunting kittens. Cat, I was thinking, being an elderly boy, and never one for catching the birds, had hung up his Mighty Hunter vest with its myriad pockets and faux macho bravado, and opted for the quieter life.

I should have reflected a little more on his reaction to the rediscovery of the clockwork beetle toy the other day. He chased it up and down the stairs and along the landing. It would have been dead several times over had it been alive in the first place. He generously batted it across to me a few times so I could enjoy the fun too.

I was really a bit chuffed that his inner kitten made such a prolonged appearance. I hadn’t bargained on it reviving an interest in former pastimes.

So bathed and pyjamaed and ready for bed, I went out to get him in from his garden mooch. He was very lively. Springing about in the summer night. He didn’t seem too keen to come in. Then he pounced on something and the penny dropped. He’d got a mouse. It was still alive and he was enjoying carrying it around and apparently showing it the different parts of the garden.

Actually, I think maybe he was wondering where to dispatch it. He knows from previous experience that I draw the line at him bringing his prey through the front door. So it looked like we could be in the garden for some time.

Cat dropped the mouse a couple of times and quickly grabbed it again. Then he dropped it once more, and the mouse, who might want to consider trying out for the England team, shot behind him and disappeared under my car. Cat was looking wildly in quite the wrong direction. He didn’t give up easily, but after a few minutes I could see his heart wasn’t in it anymore, so I picked him up. Inside, he contented himself by giving a few threatening sniffs in a couple of corners of the flat, then laid down his gun and allowed me to give him his supper.