The Ruby Rose Report: The Gift

 

I had finished my walk with my Dad, having inspected the homes and gardens en route, and barked instructions on how to bring them up to par, when I was troubled by something in the driveway

It was a stiff mouse.

I pulled my not-very observant Dad towards it and sniffed the mo, but there was no sign of life.

Poor thing. Someone had killed it.

Might as well eat it.

That’s when the mental alarm in my Dad’s head sounded. The one that is set for whenever I am going to eat something I shouldn’t. 

I hate that damn alarm.

We dogs hire humans to train our parents, amongst other things, to inform us when we shouldn’t pick up something to say “leave it.” At this critical juncture, like most humans under stress, he forgot his training and said no at different speeds and tones while jerking me backward by my harness, like I was a confused horse trying to mount a newly in-heat milk cow.

It was rude,

But, I had to put his overeager leash jerking aside to concentrate on why the mouse was in my driveway.

I  was afraid it was a Siamese message meaning “Tiny Mousey sleeps with the fishes.”

That night I went to the floor vent and barked to get the lead cat who lives under the house, Mrs. Haversham’s attention,

I knew the cats were down there, but I had to wait for Mrs. Haversham to make her way to the vent slowly. I asked her what the deal was with the mouse in the driveway.

“It was a gift to your parents to thank them for letting us live below the house and feed us the minimum amount of food to sustain life.”

I asked why leave a mouse? 

“We’ve been pooping in the gardens but no one noticed, we had to up our game.”

Oh, I had noticed. It was something else I was pulled away from mid-bite.

I said I understood, but was still confused about the mouse.

“We’re feral cats,” Mrs. Haversham said. “What are we supposed to leave? It is either poop in the garden, a dead mouse in the driveway, or hacking up hairballs to spell thank you on the steps.”

Mrs. Haversham had a point so  I thanked her. Mrs Haveresham said I was welcome, then added it was also a warning of what would happen if dinner was forgotten.

I knew it was a Siamese message. I asked her what poop in the garden meant.

“It meant I was sniffing the flowers and had to take a shit.”

How clever.

I thanked Mrs. Haversham and let her go back to the other cats who were, from the sound of it, playing golf by clubbing a birdie.

I will have to keep my eye on them. They are worthy adversaries. 

And I can only hope if we get another Sicilian message it will be a skinny mouse but a dead rabbit, signaling a kitty street gang from the 1850s wanted to rumble.

I  have learned to respect the kitties under the house, but not to trust them.