sleepus interruptus...

Every once in a while a little mole will get into our house that is promptly teased, tortured and killed my our sweet little kitties. Last night we heard the call of the wild, "mwwwwwaaaaahhhhhhhhhrrrrrrr..." --the jungle kitty call muffled by a little furry critter stuffed in the mouth. My husband said, "What was that?" I said, "That's the 'I've caught something' meow."

Hubby got up and investigated. I was a sleepy slug and didn't join the drama, but I did listen to the whole thing. Surprisingly, the mole had been captured by Rooney. Usually it's Grayson. If the traumatized mole is still alive, we'll put it outside, but if it's dead we give it a 21-gun salute and a burial at sea. This one was alive. My husband brought Rooney in for me to hold while he captured the mole in the other room...except it had disappeared. DING! Round One: Mole wins.

DING! Round Two: We let Rooney back into the room and let him do the dirty work. My memory gets fuzzy here because I'm a heavy sleeper, but soon afterward, both Grayson and Rooney are poking around in a basket of magazines in the bathroom. Obviously something is in there. Hubby gets up again (sorry, hon!) and digs in the basket. DING! Mole loses the round and a whole lot more. We thank the kitties for being the vicious critters they really are and give the little mole a watery grave down the toilet. They can never understand why we take away their prizes, but we praise them for a job well-done (they are so proud of themselves!), even though the entire thing is rather irksome and sad for the little mole.