12 1 / 2013
Occasionally I will come home and find that my cat has a present for me. Sometimes it’s a dead moth, or cockroach, but it’s usually a thoroughly gutted lizard.
She starts by playing with their tails, which she eventually severs from their bodies. Then she takes out their intestines and they die a slow, painful death.
I want to encourage her to kill pests. It’s playtime for her and less DOOM for me to breath. But I can’t help but feel that I will end up in my own particular brand of hell because I don’t save the little suckers. A brand of hell where I will be thoroughly but slowly gutted.
Sometimes it’s too much and I save them by escorting them outside, ignoring my cat’s yowls of complaint. But not always.
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