June 13, 2007

   Mother is the first cat I have owned, and I have come to love her dearly. She goes on walks with me in the woods and hops up on the porch to keep me company when I have breakfast. Sometimes I go out and visit her in the barn, over which she presides with absolute authority, even to the point that Rose, my officious working dog, will not dare to enter. This morning I brought Mother a can of tuna, and she came up to me, wrapped herself around my legs, purred, and dropped a dead bird at my feet.
  Then, a few seconds later, and just a few yards away, I came across pieces of mouse. Then,  the remains of a squirrel. Nearly every morning Mother leaves me something – rodents, baby rabbits, moles and other hapless creatures. I am fascinated by the schizophrenic nature of a nearly wild creature like Mother, one of the most loving and gentle of my animals, yet in her own way, a feline Ted Bundy. No other animal I know or have known is quite as complex and indefinable as this cuddly creature, whose soft purring belies the heart of a true serial killer.
  With dogs, you generally know where you stand. With Mother, you never really do.