We have a cat, and her name is Ginger. Ginger is fat. She is an outdoor cat, but likes to come in. She knows the window to our bedroom and will meow by our window to be let in. Early in the morning when she sees the light go on in our Sun Room, she'll meow by that window to be let in. Tricia opens the door and she'll go sit on her favorite chair and sleep for the better part of a day. Ginger is lazy.
I am not much of a 'cat person.' I'm not mean to Ginger, by any means but not a whole lot of warmth between us, either. My wife keeps reminding me of the good things that Ginger does. As if to put an exclamation mark on that thought, the other day Ginger proved her worth to me. Our fat cat came around the corner in brisk pursuit of something. She pounced into the Louisiana Iris that grows alongside the patio like a tiger chasing an antelope.
She brought out a mouse and paraded in front of me to show off her skills and prowess as a hunter.
She sat down and let the mouse go. The mouse ran away, but Ginger was quickly on top of the mouse, toying with it with her paws. She played with it until she got bored and killed it.
Ginger dismembered the mouse and left what she didn't eat by the back door. We always have to be careful when stepping out so that we don't step on remains of Ginger's prey. Okay, I'll be honest and admit it, Ginger > mice.
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