It's true. Our cat is too good of a hunter. Sure, if he lived in the wild, fending for himself, hunting and gathering for survival, this tendency would be a good thing. But our little guy is completely domesticated, pampered, well-fed and comfortable. I meet all of his needs.
Still, instincts are hardwired. The cat loves to hunt.
Hunting alone is not enough. This cat brings trophies home to gloat. He puffs out his chest and parades around the porch with a lizard or a frog or a mole dangling out of his little mouth. Most of the time I can entice him to let the victim go free. Almost 100% of the time the prey is still alive and is able to scurry to safety.
Today's episode varied from the original dance. It began as normal, with him meowing loudly at the storm door; making a racket to get my attention so I acknowledge his super skills. As always, I went to the door to help the innocent victim.
It was a snake.
I cracked the front door to squeeze onto the porch and persuade the cat to let the snake go. He shot into the house as fast as lightening, snake firmly clasped in his jaws.
The snake was in my house.
I tried to chase the cat (with snake) back out the door. No way. The cat was having a blast. He dropped the snake and started batting it across our hardwood floors.
That snake was traveling. He was slinking and sliming all over the place. It was the cat's high water moment, he was loving life.
I was freaked, the snake was wriggling and the cat was puffed up in all his glory.
All good things must come to an end. The cat batted the snake towards a window. Without much thought I opened the window, grabbed the snake and flung him to safety.
Today I was a snake handler, a snake wrangler. Hear ME roar.