That precious puss

You know, kitty, you don't have to make me like you.

I'm naturally disposed to like cats; they need to earn my enmity, not my love. I liked this cat already, before any of it: she's a cat, and every so often she'll come sit on my lap. That's all it takes.

I thought I saw a dark shadow scurry along the floor at least twice this evening, but never caught sight of what it was so I wasn't even sure it was anything at all until the cat began to show intense interest in the shoe rack-the last place I thought I saw the shadow go. She monitored it vigilantly-running from one side to the next, peeking her nose behind the boots and shoes as far as it would go-for close to an hour, I'd say, before the little mouse finally had enough and tried to make a run for it.

Holly, of course, was waiting. The cat pounced with joy and eagerly chased the poor thing from one end of the room to another. The mouse tired (or expired) from the activity long before the cat did, so, not to be dissuaded, she continued her fun with him by tossing him in the air and batting him about.

Once she'd had her fun she left him in the middle of the floor and came over for appreciation. Showing no further interest, she came to my room with me when I retired for bed, making me a tad nervous. Is the game afoot in my room now? If there's something there, I'd like her to get it, of course, but I rather prefer there be nothing to wet her appetite.


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