Our cat is a mouser. Now by definition a mouser is “a feline which uses its limited intelligence to find, stalk, and attack small rodents. In extreme cases rats may become targets (although cats tend to the lazy side of the spectrum and rats have been eating steroids lately and pumping iron. Da ‘Hood ain‘t what it used to be.)  Generally mousers will attack their prey but prefer to play with the it until exhausted, at which point it loses interest and leaves it to die.” As such, our mouser is a regular depositor of various small rodents on our front lawn, front porch, and, if feeling especially gregarious, our living room couch. Not to be out done, the non-mouser brother will follow the mouser around and pee on anything the prey touches. Dr. Livingstone could have spent months exploring our house and never tired of the adventure. Well this weekend our animalistic menagerie took a whole new turn and it has me very worried.

Saturday morning our youngest daughter (now a budding 16 year old, driving, know-it-all) trudged down the stairs, dragging her feet a yard behind her. As she generally wakes up a half hour after she gets out of bed the “HUH!!!” she muttered when she entered the kitchen was cause for alarm. That much enthusiasm is generally reserved for fires in the oven (don’t ask,) floods in the hallway (you can ask but I have an alibi,) and murders (this is where it gets interesting.)  When pressed for details (I had already dialled 9-1-…) she said (quite calmly I thought) “It would appear that a bunny exploded on our porch last night.”

Now we may not live in the best part of town (anyone who would allow us into their neighbourhood is immediately suspect) but explosions in the middle of the night tend to wake me up. I was pretty certain that of all the noises I had heard or been responsible for that night, an explosion was, as the cops would say, a missing person. Oh sure, there may have been a small explosion or two but those were easily explained by the taco salad I’d eaten and my wife knows the hot sauce is a no no. And besides the blanket muffles them to the point where they’re almost inaudible. So I immediately set out to round up the usual suspect. When I opened the blood spattered back door to inspect the wreckage he was sitting out there on the porch licking his crotch like it was Martha Stewart hour and oh… by the way… lick, lick, lick… what’s for breakfast?

The carnage was horrific. It has been documented  (by someone who knows, my wife tells me. And they know a lot so it must be true) that the head of an animal contains the most nutrients (no wonder I’m in such bad shape. All my nutrients are stuck in my head. Why can’t it share with the rest of my body like, oh let’s say… my HEART!!) so that tends to be the only part that gets eaten (sorry, I should have put a warning up there somewhere. Oh well… too late now. So let’s press on.) Well the head was nowhere to be seen. MIA as it were. Although my guess is that there wouldn’t be lot of action. Perhaps a blink or two, but c’mon really, what kind of trouble can a simple head get into? So I wagged a finger at the cat and explained the realities of disembowelment on porches and threatened to withhold food for a week if this kind of behaviour continued. I got the Puss ‘n Boots “you can’t possibly think it was me” look followed by more licking. “WE HAD THOSE FRICKIN’ THINGS CUT OFF!!” I cried. “Stop licking what is no longer there.” I’m convinced he’s doing it just to show off. Some days I wish I was a cat.

So a warning to all the bunnies out there. I don’t know what would be worse, (not having a bunny brain, and all) running around being afraid that I was going to spontaneously explode, or knowing that there is now a mouser out there who has graduated to bunnies. Either way, they should be afraid.

Very afraid.