It is a nice slow morning. Sam and I are getting dressed for an outing of Christmas shopping. We are all set except for snack-packing, which will only take a minute, then we can hit the road. We're not in a hurry, but there is a finite amount of time between wake-up / snack / lunch / nap during which Sam is patient and happy. So I know that we have to get going before too late otherwise pleasant mother-boy shopping excursion becomes draining flailing whinefest.
I won't bore you with the details of how tricky it is getting us both ready to go out, particularly when there is only one grown up available for toddler supervision. Those of you with kids know. And those of you without, just imagine chasing around a clumsy 2.5 foot version of yourself who is resistant to everything you are trying to do it, especially the cleaning, dressing and feeding tasks. Then picture having your shower while singing songs from the Elephant Show so that the the tiny-you doesn't freak out and think you've disappeared behind that glass door forever. And remember to stick your head out 800 times to makes sure tiny-you hasn't fallen into the toilet or managed to open the door and escape the bathroom. Then get dressed and dry your hair and put on your makeup with the now impatient tiny, snotty, you clinging to your leg and howling.
Whatever time it used to take to get ready to go out is now multiplied by three. But we manage. And this morning we are doing fine. Until we come back downstairs from our primping.
I can see a slice of the kitchen as I round the corner at the bottom of the stairs. I see fluff on the floor and wonder what the cat has gotten into. Once I realize the mess is feathers, I wince at the thought of what I'll see when the whole room is in view.
Luckily, it was just feathers.
And blood. Did I mention blood? Mangy eaten bird blood? Some of it sticking the feathers to the floor. Yuck.
The next 20 minutes were spent sweeping bloody feathers (Seriously, do you know how hard that is?!) while trying to keep 2.5 foot clumsy me from eating them. Then washing the floor. And washing two pairs of hands.
Sabbath (the cat) does this sort of thing on a fairly regular basis. We've even had dead and dying mice delivered to our bedroom in the middle of the night before. I can't really get mad at him for it - this is how cats show their love and respect for their people. I am grateful, however, that Sam sticks to hugs and kisses.