Quickly, I must say my baby is George, the solid white kitty cat. The sweetest little fuzz-ball you’ve ever seen, but is he a murderer? Let us study the evidence.
It all started (at least as far as I know) last week when I was sweeping the deck. I decided to call my little darling. “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty – come home, George.” I saw his little white head pop up from a thicket of bushes (his favorite place). He headed my way but his trot wasn’t as spry as usual. Hmm, what was going on?
That’s when I saw it! Clamped in George’s mouth was a squirmy brown thing. The thing kicked but George held firm. As I tried to get a clear look, George hopped up the steps and dropped the brown thing, which I decided was a chipmunk, at my feet as if he was presenting me a big prize. He actually looked proud.
“George,” I screamed. “What have you done?” By then the brown thing had scampered to the side of the deck and that’s when Gracie, George’s twin sister, made her move. Gracie, the fuzzy kitty, who never walks beyond a snail’s pace, pounced upon the poor brown thing. My sweet George growled. There was quiet a commotion as the chipmunk slide under the deck.
I scolded the kitties. “What do you mean? You have just had a nice breakfast.” I didn’t understand. But they understood perfectly. Their prize (really George’s prize) was still at large and they meant to find it. Two white balls of fur pounced into our beautiful sweet shrub. As I stood helpless, two white things and one brown thing practically beat the shrub to death. It’s not so sweet anymore.
Like a streak of brown lightning, the little thing ran for a pine tree and climbed higher than I thought one chipmunk could have done, with George and Gracie right behind. It’s a good thing I had my broom, because I took off like my version of slower lightning (a good bit slower) and whacked at all three of them. Finally the kitties jumped down, but as I far as I know, the chipmunk is still there.
Since that fateful morning I can’t get this little tune out of my head:
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