Never a Dull Moment

Cats are ferocious creatures. Lethal hunters, there are many warnings about not letting them to wander around outside at night for fear of the destruction of our native nocturnal population. I've even heard that putting one bell on their collar doesn't distract the prey, it just makes them more efficient hunters. (By they way, two bells are needed if you really want to slow them down.)

Our cat Maisie is one of these. A tortoiseshell short-haired domestic cat, she holds all of these characteristics and has proven herself to be a force with which to be reckoned. On accepting her through a pet shelter nine years ago, I had full intention of making her an indoor only cat, figuring that at nine months of age, I could train her to be so. She wouldn't be one of THOSE cats.

How wrong I was. I worked out that she was an outdoor cat within the first few weeks of having her at home. We collected her in September; a much loved addition after a family trauma. She was very timid at first and stuck to the laundry for most of her awake time (which for a cat, isn't much). We were all hoping that she would love a quiet, indoor life and be ready to be hugged, cuddled and patted when we needed her to calm our anxieties. However, as her confidence grew, so did her speed and Master Thirteen (who was Master Three at the time), spent the entire first month on the top of the kitchen table as her galloping through the house was scaring him. The crux came when I found her in early December, climbing up the inside of Christmas tree. I realised then that I had grossly misjudged her personality and her capabilities.

From then on, she was an outdoor cat, who we would try to lock in the laundry come nightfall, if we could catch her. Occasionally, she would 'disappear' around dusk (my guess is she was lying in wait silently in the garden, to make sure I'd actually given up). In the morning she would loudly declare her 'prize' on our back doorstep. At 5.00 am. If I was going to create cats, they'd come with a volume button.

I would love to tell you they were some horrible beasts she was slaughtering, and certainly wild rabbits were among the count, but sadly she did catch the odd possum and native bird. I used to cheer about the rabbits and introduced minor birds but it did break my heart to see nothing but a pile of brightly coloured feathers with a beak and two little scaly feet adorning our back door step.

Since moving to the Southern Highlands, I have vowed to try and keep my initial intention with this feline. Now ten years old, I am hoping that a quiet life indoors would be more suitable to her than it was back then. (After all, that's why we've moved down here, right?) So far, so good; after Week Two, she's still apprehensive of venturing outdoors, and certainly happy to stay warm and snug in her loft bed (on top of the laundry cupboard) at night. She's seems like a much happier kitty.

So imagine my surprise, when Master Thirteen bellowed (the house is bigger, so the voice had to accommodate), "MUUUM, why is there a disembowelled possum in our back yard???? MUUUMMM????" A flurry of excitement ensued as Master Seven ran outside to see if his brother was telling the truth. An exuberant yell from the yard confirmed the gruesome sighting. I made a mental note to suggest he study Biology in High School in eight years' time.

I ventured out to inspect the carnage, and carnage it was. To protect my squeamish readers, I won't go into the same gory detail as I prefer (yes, a Nursing degree is still on the cards for my next change of vocation). Suffice to say, there was a possum, blood, fur and intestines. Oh, and one leg was missing. Kind of odd, as I know Maisie likes to eat the head and leave the rest, but I digress....

It turns out, as I found Maisie snugly locked inside her laundry abode, that the culprit this time was our dog, George. I'm not hugely knowledgeable about dog breeds, but I think a Staffy cross German Shepherd means he likes to hunt. Certainly our two rabbits found that out the hard way (may their little furry souls RIP). 

With gloved hands I cleaned up the crime scene. As I bagged the remains and removed the clumps of fur from around the yard, I silently wondered if I should be harvesting this expensive commodity - how much would possum fur sell for these days? 

Reason overcame - the possum remains AND the fur were disposed of sensibly, with a mental note to take the dog for an extra walk tomorrow. And buy some more dog toys. And write a blog post - there's never a dull moment.