When cats become serial killers

Earlier this week there was a news segment on a study conducted by a university.  They attached little cameras onto domestic cats and tracked their activities.  The study said, basically, that cats are serial killers who kill just for the fun of it.  

I live in the country and depend on my cats to do just that.  If a mouse gets into my house, I expect them to dispatch the rodent posthaste.  That is why I gave them their own eBay account, as payment for services rendered.  

I would have thought Schooner would be the mouser, because he loves to play with toys, but both times (that I know about) there has been a rodent incident, it has been Hobiecat, not Schooner, who has committed the justifiable homicide.

I wondered why.  Hobie would rather sleep, while Schooner would rather play fetch with me, bat cat balls around in the middle of the night, drag toys all over the house, and hide them behind the piano.  So why doesn't he want to participate in the hunt and kill game most cats enjoy?

I watched him for a while and I think he may not be stealthy enough to hunt.  He thinks he is hidden when he isn't.  

Schooner thinks he is completely hidden

Schooner, wondering if I'll ever find him

The last couple of days I've been working with Schooner, trying to teach him how to hunt, so he can share in the fun of murdering helpless rodents.  After all, Hobie might want to take a vacation some day.  After a full day of training, with charts and grafts and flip charts and a pop quiz or two, Schooner was exhausted.

Schooner taking a rest on the sofa

 But now I'm beginning to think I made a mistake when I taught him how to hunt.

Schooner  (and why do I feel like prey?)

The Brigand Schooner

*******Update*******

All six of the cat toy balls with the bells inside--that were rescued from behind the piano last weekend--are missing (see previous post).

The Brigand Schooner

While doing laundry this evening, I decided to incarcerate the brigand, Schooner, in kitty jail until he gives up the location of the loot. 

His brother, Hobiecat, is not willing to be an informer.

Potential Informer, Hobiecat

King me

Piano with basket of cat toys on lower left

Today I decided to rearrange the furniture in the living room.  I don't do this very often because I have two pianos, a huge, old, walnut armoire, and the usual furniture. Everything is heavy and the cats do nothing to help.  In fact, they formed a rambunctious audience, I thought, until I pulled one of the pianos out from the wall and began to shove it across the room. It was then I realized the cats were anxious, as in Poe's Tell-Tale Heart.

Behind the piano (which I thought was flush against the wall to prevent creatures from gathering back there), I found six round cat balls with bells inside, the pit of an avocado, a balled aluminum foil wrapper from some confection, and eleven checkers.

I'm not pulling out the other piano.  I'm pretty sure that is where they have been hiding all the stuff they've been buying from eBay.

Jingle, Jingle, Thwack

Pets are amusing. Except sometimes.

Last night, before I went to bed, I thought I’d play with the cats. I picked up one of Schooner’s toys and tossed it. Normally he plays an energetic game of fetch, but last night he just sauntered over to the toy and tapped it.

"Fine,” I said. “I was saving this for Christmas, but here is a new toy.” I dropped a new plastic ball with an obnoxious bell inside, and Schooner went crazy, batting it all over the house before running out of steam. He clamped his jaws around it and trotted to my feet, dropping the ball and glancing up. I scooped it up and hurled it into the kitchen, Schooner close behind. He batted it around for another two minutes before bringing it back. We did this several times before he dropped it too far for my reach. This seems to be the difference between a dog’s fetch game and a cat’s fetch game. The cat will call a halt when he’s had enough.

“That’s it.” I stood up, stretched, and shuffled down the long hall to my room. “Good night Hobiecat and Schooner.” They watched as I closed the door. The cats are not invited into my room because they use my bed as a drag strip at 5AM, which I do not find amusing. But I knew they'd go snuggle up in their beds and be warm and safe.

In the dark, the distant tinkle of a bell woke me. It got louder and louder and I knew. Schooner was batting the ball down the hall toward my door. I glanced at the red numbers on the digital clock: 4:10 AM.

The bell stopped for an instant, then began again; jingle, jingle, thwack; jingle, jingle, thwack; jingle jingle, thwack. He bounced the ball against my door repeatedly for about five minutes until he finally gave up the hope I’d come out and play.

Merry Christmas.

Maybe that pet rock thing was a good idea.