Cats, rats, sex and wives


    Woke up this morning to the dismembered body of a rat laying on my porch. Nothing new there. The cat is always ripping things apart and leaving the remains on the doorstep. The cat goes after gophers, rabbits, squirrels and birds. Basically, anything that moves. He is not unlike Bubba Clinton.

    Looking a little closer at this morning’s offering on the porch, I could see it was unique in a few ways. First, this must have been one arrogant rat. I know this because he was fat. If you visually reconstruct the pieces you can see that he was almost as large as the cat. Must have been one hell of a fight. But you can tell that this rat did as he pleased. He lived in my garage, drank my water and got fat off whatever food my land would yield to him. This was nothing less than a major effrontery to my cat.

    The other interesting aspect of the scattered rat corpse was the hindquarters. The rear end was removed with Hannibal Lecter-like precision and was the only item on the doormat. It looks like the cat wants me to share in the spoils of battle. It’s as if the rat’s booty is supposed to be my bounty. Bless his heart. At last check, Bubba’s rear end was still attached.

    At this point I’m wondering if Bubba is more rat than cat. The canary feathers spewing from his mouth might be a clue.

    What is the message to this sordid tail? Maybe the lesson is that we should never have asked some senators to do a job that was meant for a cat. Or maybe the moral of the story is that there are no morals to the story. Cats, rats and Clinton all live in a field where instinct is everything. A field where reactions rule and morality impedes. Perhaps. Or maybe you could give a rat’s behind. If you don’t have one to give, take mine.

    Paul Skophammer