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.