Warning, this post contains images of death.
For most of the summer my animals, two cats and two dogs, have not allowed me to sleep past 7 am, so why was I able to snooze until 9 this morning--trash pick up morning, of all days? I am quite a light sleeper under normal circumstances, but Dean is away and my thoughts are naturally full of serial killers--I should have been up at the crack of dawn. And why was I humming "She's Leaving Home" immediately upon waking? I hate that song.
At first I didn't notice too much that was unusual: a bit of cat puke, the bottom shelf of the book case cleared out and scattered. Newton, my elderly chihuahua was looking paranoid. I assumed he pooped in my office again, to mourn Dean's absence.
And then I found him. Mr. Mousie. Actually, I kinda stepped on him, but he was already dead.
Poor Fella. But Who Dunnit?
The only documented killer in our house is Einstein. She offed two baby bunnies in the first summer we had her. But her alibi was solid; she was with me all night.
So, was it Newton? Not likely, he's got weak legs and cloudy eyes, but he sure looked shifty. And after two weeks of "I can't get down from the bed without help," suddenly he's able to sneak out to the couch on his own? He knows something.
Perhaps it was the alluring and aloof Harriet? She seemed uninterested in breakfast. And she's been doing a lot of internet research lately . . .
WAS IT THE CAT ROLLING AROUND ON TOP OF MR. MOUSIE'S CORPSE AND FORCING HIM TO BREAKDANCE?
Oh Charli, I guess you're not a kitten anymore.