Boca’s Lost Plaything

Here is the story that I submitted to the Erma Bombeck Writing contest.  Not only can Boca give one hell of a pissed off cat stare, he can’t even fit his 18 pound self on a single kitchen chair.

We have a punk cat named Boca.  This is a cat that has successfully captured hummingbirds for fun. While I realize that this behavior is pretty typical for a cat, I was definitely not happy to discover that Boca had brought a critter into the house last night.  What my husband, Michael, and I saw as soon as we walked into the house was a cat that was clearly missing his plaything.  It’s the same way that we can tell when our dog, Casey, pees in the house.  Different look but we know the meaning. 

I immediately did the responsible thing as a pet owner and admonished Boca, “Bad cat!” and then promptly went to bed.  Boca just yawned at me.  I was reading my book when my husband yelled at me to come help him.  He was in the dining room with Boca deep in the hunt. 

Now, I have no idea what my husband was thinking in asking for my help.  I am not at all good at critter catching.  It is very scary to me to see a wild small dark animal run anywhere near me.  So there I warily stood, next to the dining room door as my husband moved stuff around with Boca following and asking:  “Is it there?  Is it there? Is it there?”  

Suddenly a little brown mouse scampers across the floor. And then, as usual, I start screaming.  Which is when Michael uses his irritated husband voice and loudly requested that I “keep it in the dining room” which I did not do because it was coming straight toward me.  Boca immediately jumped over the ottoman which kept the mouse from running into the kitchen.  Now, Michael is all pissed at me because I am “so not helping the situation” (his words, not mine) and the kids are sleeping so I need to stop screaming.  Like making sure my two teenagers do not wake up is a priority for me.  Yeah.  Right.  I swear, if either kid were in my bad graces at the time, I would not think twice about corralling the critter up into their bedroom and shutting their door. 

At this point Michael has captured a small, quivering mouse. I grabbed our official critter containment container – an empty beer box and handed it to him.  Once the mouse was safely placed in the box, Michael took him outside. I shut the pet door so Boca was trapped inside the house and again lectured him that what he did was wrong, wrong, wrong.  

Kind of makes me want to rethink the whole Rat on a String cat toy that he got for Christmas though.

 What me?  What did I do?

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