A couplefew nights ago, catatonic with fatigue after a couple days of travel, I found just the right pace of entertainment watching my cat chase a furry little squeaker all around the place. My conscience wouldn’t let me object– it was nature’s way and the mouse deserved whatever was coming to it, after all… but my sense of rectitude couldn’t allow me to stay for even the chance of a bloody climax, so when the mouse was good and hidden, I went up to bed, with no idea who’d win.
The next morning, having forgotten about the whole scene thanks to a night of Thomas Disch dreams, I made the coffee and fed the cat, whose breakfast made its way back up several minutes later. And right in the middle of the mess was the cutest slick brown fur, with tail still mostly undigested.
Despite the fact that I had to clean it up, I was so proud.