Cat Clean-up

I am not a girly-girl. As a child I remember playing with frogs, scaling trees and walking ridgepoles. I was tough. I was a tomboy.

And then something changed. Suddenly the mere appearance of a frog would send me zipping into the house for cover. Climbing a ladder more than halfway up would make me shake with fear if I dared look down. Still though, I was tougher than most of the Guess-wearing, frosted bang havers that made up the majority of my sex as a preteen.

And I'm still pretty much the same. I don't mind getting dirty. I appreciate camping because it allows me the freedom of not caring what I look like while we're there. I can still take a lump and I'll still dive to catch a line drive headed at me.

But don't ask me to clean up after our cats. Our cats, Maisy and Moppet, are prolific hunters. You name it, they've caught it: birds, mice, rabbits, chipmunks. My cats aren't lazy; they hunt and they hunt daily. The problem is that they don't eat what they kill. The gluttonous little princesses torture their prey, kill it and then leave the carcases all over my yard and driveway. Oh, you think it's gross just reading about it? Right now there are three dead mice in my driveway. Three. And they are, as you might imagine, repulsive, disgusting things to look at.

But I can't deal with them. I just can't. Instead I choose to park my car out by the road and bypass the rodent massacre displayed in my backyard.

Call me a girly-girl. Call me chicken. I don't care. Superdad's cleaning up after the cats.