A better writer could turn this into an awesomely hilarious post, but the truth is I can barely even think about it for more than a couple seconds without kinda wanting to die. But I have to write it here for posterity’s sake at the very least because one day, many years from now, Ezra is going to wonder why his mom is completely insane and I’m going to point back to the night I found a dead body in my living room, strewn about all Dexter-style. Okay, it was a bird body. But still. I’m getting ahead of myself.
In an effort to
ignore battle the constant stench of cat poo filling our apartment, we decided to move the litter box to the balcony and just leave the sliding glass door open all the time. The cats are beyond thrilled with this arrangement because it means constant outside access, and in their little kitty brains, constant outside access = 100% win. If the food and the so-fun-to-annoy Humans weren’t inside, they would happily sit on the balcony forever and ever.
insaner more energetic kitty—has become completely obsessed with birds. He sits for hours, precariously perched in attack mode on the edge of the balcony, watching the birds chirp and flit about on the nearby trees.
We thought it was cute.
Until last Friday.
On Friday, we came home from a late dinner and put the baby to bed and got all jammied up and were ready to start a movie. We walked into the dim living room with stuff scattered all over the floor and I though gee, our living room is so messy. And then I thought wait, I just cleaned it the morning… So I looked a little closer and then turn to Cris to ask “What is that?”
I think it’s a plant? The cats must’ve brought one in here!
No, wait, is that—
Is that… No. No.
Oh my god. Please tell me that’s not a bird. No. No no no no no.
We slowwwwwly turn on the light. We gasp in horror at the scene in
front of us. Bird feathers. Everywhere. Smears of blood all over the carpet. A dead bird, right next to the couch. Wait! Correction: half of a dead bird. A leg thrown near the recliner. Guts and innards casually
tossed about. It was brutal.
I then proceeded to calmly and gracefully clean the mess up.
Ha! Kidding! I then proceeded to whimper like a little girl and hide under the blankets on the bed while facebooking about the incident and occasionally peeking out to
yell at ask Cris if he was done cleaning it all up yet.
After a night and morning full of soap and ammonia and baking soda and scrubby brushes and vacuums and whatnot, I think we’ve got the living room back to a non-revolting state, but I was thisclose to giving up and moving back in with my parents.
[I told this story to a friend, and she was all “Oh, yeah, my dumb cat brings me dead birds all the time”, all like hey, whatever about it. Am I just the biggest baby ever?]
[The best part? The other half of the dead bird was never recovered. I am so afraid of it popping out and attacking me when I least expect it.]