Writing Goofy Shit

I have often wondered if the smaller creatures of the world…. the mole, the bird, the moth, the toad… have the ability to communicate amongst themselves. They basically have the odds stacked against them due to their size and relative inability to defend themselves, and it would seem highly likely that as members of the downtrodden caste, nature would give them at least a little something extra to help them survive.

If they do indeed have the ability to speak to one another in some fashion, I have no doubt as to what they talk about in my neck of the woods during the warm months.

See, I have cats. Lots of ‘em. Some stay inside all the time, but most of them are outside animals. Cats are natural-born killers. Unlike dogs, which are also predators but have had this instinct mostly bred out of them by eons of domestication, cats haven’t changed that much since their wild ancestors roamed the forests and the plains.

They like to stalk. They like to catch. They like to maim and torture and murder.

The advent of mild weather brings more activity from tiny critters. They’re out and about, eating, mating, playing, just enjoying the departure of winter. And I have no doubt that once the warm season has settled in, these little guys gather around tiny campfires late at night, telling stories about the horror house on the hill.

“Yeah… Ralphie Rat took a dare and went up there late one night last week – no one’s seen him since.”

“Really? Some of the moths say there are things living in that house. Things with claws and teeth that will eat you up.”

“Woah. I heard something similar from a lizard who says he went up there but managed to escape. He said they can just sneak up on you and you never hear them until it’s too late. It’s like they’re invisible until they pounce on you.”

“All they found of Barry Beetle was his legs.”

My yard turns into a field of slaughter. My front porch becomes a morgue for a never-ending stream of tiny corpses. I have no doubt at all that this is fodder for plentiful tales around those teeny night fires.

It’s not the cats’ fault, of course. I don’t begrudge them for not being able to control their primal urge to hunt. They’re just animals, after all. What I don’t get is their apparent need to proudly display their kill to me, their lord and master. (Yeah, right. Dogs have owners, cats have staff)

A summer morning isn’t complete without stepping out onto the front porch and discovering the latest victim of my cats’ lust for blood. A headless chipmunk, the wings of a large bug (and nothing else), a suspicious amount of loose feathers or fur… all evidence of the previous evening’s carnage.

These purring, mostly laid back, lazy companions of mine somehow don’t strike me as being heartless killing machines. Obviously a transformation must take place as soon as they slink out the front door and are out of my sight. I’m thinking of something along the lines of  ”An American Werewolf In London” where the guy falls to the floor and begin to grow gator-sized fangs and knifelike claws in dramatic, shape-shifting fashion. But the cats don’t need a full moon, they just need the night.

It’s nearly September. Fall will be in the air soon and the bloodshed and mayhem will subside as the critters in the neighborhood prepare to bunk in for the winter. My cats will be spending most of the day and night inside when the temperature drops.

They’ll sleep in their favorite cubbyholes and hideaways, dreaming of the summer’s victims, storing energy for the new hunting season  that will begin when the snow melts next year.

The small animals in the area, tucked away in their holes and lairs and burrows, will whisper to one another the latest stories about the past terrible summer, and the horror house on the hill.