Bob’s War on Bunnies occurs every spring in our suburban neighborhood. It’s disgusting, violent and shocking like an outtake from some TV nature show. Worse, Bob leaves it to Mom to remove the inedible body parts–gall bladders, tails, bits of fur–from the porch. Mom’s Aunt Juliet in Ohio reminds her about the dangers of allowing intermediate vectors into one’s home on a cuddle-me basis. Bob spends his evenings with his head in Mom’s lap while she watches The Big Bang Theory and Jeopardy. Late at night, when she should be sleeping, Mom fears she may become the Typhoid Mary of the next global pandemic. She also remembers the kid’s book Horror Classic, There’s a hair in my dirt! by Gary Larsen.
Bob cleans house—out-of-doors. Although he’s grown a bit timid about attacking squirrels now that he’s no longer a hungry stray balls-out Tom Cat, he still likes to eat bunnies. Along with bunnies, his hit list includes darling chippies, birdies, mice and voles. Voles are the loss leader among the daily offerings; even when there’s nothing else to be out-smarted and slain, there’s always some poor bastard vole ambling near-sightedly past. Yes, my rescue cat is the bane of the local wildlife, except for the fine assortment of parasites he picks up from the guts of his prey. Then it’s time for Mom Picks Up after Bob and Mom does laundry for Bob, along with a trip to the vet for the tablets to de-worm a 13 lb. cat.
He’s good about swallowing the first pill, but his dose is 1 ½ tablets, so he puts a paw down, or, actually his jaw closes, on my fingers as they attempt to deploy the second half. That, he seems to believe, is pushing his goodwill in a shameless, numb-nuts duh-human way. He sets about explaining this with saber-like claws and shiny, clean white teeth. He’s semi-polite, not quite ready to rip my arm off, but he’s firmly in the negative. Mom often has to give up.