I scooped her up and we carried the bug to the trash and I put it in.
"What a good kitty," I told her. "Thank-you."
And then we went to bed and slept, both of us having had productive days in our separate ways.
This morning she hunted another one of the same species. She toyed and played with it in the cruel manner that cats do and in a game of catch, release, toss, catch, release, she took it outside where she finished it off.
Oh, we have become fools for this cat. Mr. Moon refers to himself as "daddy" to her. And of course, I am "mama."
I cringe to tell you that. But it is true. We burst our buttons with pride at what a fine cat she is, so very dignified (she refuses to play with feathers or balls) as well as being modest and ladylike in her toilet. And such a hunter!
What is WRONG with us? To have succumbed to such cliches and stereotypes is simply ridiculous. And yet, we so have.
Mr. Moon wanted eggs and biscuits this morning. He brought me some Tupelo honey last week and was craving some on a biscuit. I got out the self-rising flour and the buttermilk, I started a pan of grits and some bacon in the skillet. When I went to crack the eggs, I discovered that Lucille's egg, the one I found yesterday, had two tiny yolks in it. Perfect and merry and gold as sunflowers.
I heard a racket from the kitchen porch a few minutes ago and went out to see what was happening. Elvis was doing this:
He had squeezed his body into the rosebush pot and was wallowing and making his call of Come here, hens.
I have absolutely no explanation of what this is about. I have seen him do this before in a pot of ferns on the front porch and the hens did indeed begin to lay eggs there for awhile but does he truly expect them to lay eggs amidst the thorns of the rose?
And I will tell you that the hens were completely ignoring him and so perhaps they are not as addled as he. It would, however, be quite handy to have the eggs delivered right to the kitchen door. Perhaps there is method in his madness. Perhaps he is only thinking of my convenience, being the considerate gentleman I know him to be. On the other hand, he may have just lost his mind.
And so it goes in Lloyd on a Sunday morning. Mr. Moon is mowing and every time he makes a pass near the back porch where I am, Maurice becomes agitated and jumps off the table and runs to another part of the house. Then she comes back to settle down uneasily again, tail twitching, eyes open and tensed for possible attack by mowing machine. She'll figure it out. The Voodoo Lily bloom-to-be has grown another three inches in the night and I am panting with anticipation to see what it is going to become. We may actually go to town today to shop for Mr. Moon a new recliner. His beloved old Lazy Boy has finally reached the point where it will not recline and the guts are broken and can no longer be repaired and as we all know, a man must have a chair to call his own. I would also love to drop off a table at May's which I have promised her. It belonged to Mother, a lovely cherry drop-leaf that my grandfather found in a shed on a piece of property he bought. It had been painted green and he restored it and it is the table I ate off as a child. I want May to have it now.
It is a fine and lovely day and if it rains, perfect. Or at least, as perfect as it gets for me. I am content and I am grateful and my tick bite has quit itching for now and there is nothing in this world I need which I do not have and amazingly, I have things which I did not know I needed but which I so obviously did- chickens, a cat, a man on a mower and a yard for him to mow.
And it is good.