As my wife and daughter were heading out the door this morning, to send the wee one to school, I heard the fair Jessica say “What does Gracie have in her mouth?” Gracie, if you recall, is the under-discussed cat that has joined the Goldberg Household (in the face of countless grievances filed by Cosmo the Wonderdog with the union, Amnesty International, and various other agencies, religious and civil).
Gracie likes to take a morning constitutional in the front yard. Often she and Cosmo will share space on the front porch, a canine-feline vigilance committee, that amuses the neighbors but humiliates our dog.
Anyway, my daughter responded, far more matter-of-factly than I would have ever guessed, “Oh, a chipmunk.”
Before they could close the door, Gracie brought the poor creature into the house. My wife yelled, “Daddy, Gracie has something for you” or some such and sauntered out the door. I went over and saw Gracetofur (as we sometimes call her) holding this little brown, gold and black blob in her mouth. I picked her up, saying “Not in the house. What you do outside is your own business.”
Alas, she dropped the creature which, surprise, was not dead. The chipmunk ran to relative safety while Gracie, now epicly pissed off, watched her thoughtful gift skitter away, no doubt to plot revenge against not only her, but her human subjects as well. Cosmo was disgusted with the whole scene.
So, now, we have a wild, ferocious, chipmunk running free in our home. My Alaskan bride — who doesn’t share my revulsion at cute animals killing other cute animals – is shouting “Do your job!” at the cat. And I fully expect that when I get home I’m going to be immediately assigned to chipmunk rescue duty.