Torn

Sparky has been hunting a mouse for at least an hour this morning.  I use the term "hunting" loosely, because what he's doing is less like hunting and more like fishing.  He's using the catch and release system, over and over, with the same mouse.  I don't know how this little rodent hasn't died of a heart attack yet.  And, I'm torn.  And now, Natalie Imbruglia is stuck in my head.  God, how I hate mice.

I'm torn because while I'm proud of the cat for earning his keep, I also hate to see the mouse suffer.  Actually, that's not true.  My wife hates to see the mouse suffer.  I just wish he'd kill the thing and get it over with so I could pick it up and throw it in the trash.

But, I'm not going to yell at him and discourage him from doing what he was brought into this house to do.  As much as it would break my kids' hearts to hear it, Sparky wasn't brought home for their enjoyment.  He's here to kill mice.  Kill 'em dead.

I can't punish him for taking a little pleasure in his work can I?  I can tell that Rachel wants me to finish him, but this isn't Mortal Kombat and there's a code between assassins.  "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."  So, rather than grab my hammer and stop this nonsense, I'll permit Sparky his little indulgences.

Butterfly In The Sky

One of my favorite parenting jobs is to walk my son out to the bus each morning.  We have a short stretch to walk, but the conversations we have on this road are amazing.  We've discussed just about everything on this path from morality to banality and religion to science.  But that's not what I want to talk about.  While this road has helped to nurture the life of my son and myself, it has also taken the lives of many who walk in its way: worms, grasshoppers, snakes, and most recently, a butterfly.

This trail leads to certain death.......and Bus #24.

Every morning as we begin our sleepy-eyed walk to the end of the driveway, we encounter death.  Whenever we see a grasshopper, face-down in the gravel with twitching legs, it's a good time to talk about the circle of life.  It's also a good time to discuss the idea of "Mercy Killings".  Those shoes aren't going to break themselves in.  Stomp away boy.

On the 4 p.m. walk back to our house we encountered a butterfly with a broken wing.  In my head I'm thinking, kill it and move on, but our son hasn't had a chance to use the "Critter Carrier" he received for his birthday, so I figure now's the time.  Amazingly, he was willing to not only pick this gimp-winged creature up, but he allowed it to run along his hand for a good ten minutes.  He has some sensory issues and doesn't like to touch anything besides his trusty hanger, so I was proud of him.

He's giving this butterfly the finger.

Our oldest daughter was having fun watching brother hold the butterfly.  She's usually the adventurous one, but she refused to let the former caterpillar crawl across her appendages.  Things were going well until it was time to stick this critter in it's carrier.  That's when the fighting began.

Caleb (in English):  "It's mine!"

Leah (whatever language she speaks):  "No, my fudderfy!" 

Daddy had a long day and wasn't about to listen to opening arguments regarding who should have full custody of the soon-to-be-dead animal.  Sometimes, it's best to just rip the band-aid right off.  "Leah, the butterfly is Caleb's."

She took it pretty well:

Years of playing in metal bands have given me an amazing tolerance for high-pitched squeals.

It's better this way; she doesn't have time to get attached.  She won't be as sad tomorrow morning when she finds out I slipped into brother's room in the middle of the night, stole the butterfly, and curb-stomped it outside in the pale moon light.  Mercy Killing.

Missing Link Found?

Some things you can't unsee.

Living in the rural midwest, surrounded by fields, there is no shortage of mice trying to find their way into our home.  There is, however, a shortage of useful mousetraps.  It seems that the only thing these sticky glue traps catch is curious 3 year old girls.

Cat In Heat

Nothing says summer like a heat wave.  Yesterday's temperature brought a record-breaking 108 degrees and we face similar triple digit threats today and perhaps through early next week.  Up until now, I had successfully exiled our new cat (which I am allergic to) to the back deck.  When my wife came home and found the cat, which my son decided to name Sparky, panting outside, she decided to
bring it indoors.  The only thing I hate worse than a cat is a cat in heat, but the heat may be a safer place for this feline.

My daughter loves this cat; loves it to death. And if Sparky stays inside much longer, death will be right around the corner.  Unfortunately for the cat, the only pet my daughter has ever had is our 68 pound Labrador; the same lab she rides like a pony.  So when it comes time to play with the kitty, she can get a little rough.

I'm gonna hug you and kiss you and love you forever.

Like, Elmyra rough.

I didn't mean no harm George.

Or, Lennie stroking a puppy rough.

At least when Sparky was outside, we could bring Leah indoors to give the cat a break.  I recall one day that Sparky took a four limbed leap off of our second story deck to the welcoming freedom of earth below.  I now believe it was an attempt to get away from our daughter.  Little two-pound, no-body-fat Sparky would rather risk broken bones and almost certain death than have to be squeezed, swaddled, and man-handled by a little three year old girl.

Much to the chagrin of our cat, she survived her suicide swan-dive and is now back in the loving arms of my daughter.  The loving, powerful, bone-crushing arms of my sweet princess.  Every now and then she manages to wiggle free and make a mad dash to the safety found under the bed.  I've never seen monsters under the bed, but I've certainly seen one trying to poke at a cat that's under the bed.

108 degrees?  No problem.  She's safer outside with the heat.

Frisky Two Times

A recent trip to the vet (or, animal doctor as Caleb says) cemented my decision to no longer be fruitful and multiply.  When I later discussed this firm position on procreation with my wife, I should have been more specific.  Apparently, she thought I meant I no longer wanted human babies, and took it upon herself to bring home a feline baby.

The fact that I'm allergic to cats should be reason enough to not bring another kitten into our house.  The fact that it's a stray somebody dumped on the side of the road should be another great reason to not bring this hair ball home.  If it was perhaps adopted from a No-Kill shelter, or maybe even PetCo, I'd give it a chance.  But this cat comes from