Yesterday morning I was going outside to weed and as I walked into the laundry room to get my shoes, I realized that Mister Boogers was sliding through a hole in the screen door. When Fred gets up in the morning, he opens the back door and latches the screen door so that the cats can sit and watch the birds and Maxi and Newt.

“Mister Boogers!” I said in shock and dismay. Mister Boogers wiggled frantically, slid through the hole, and ran off across the yard. I opened the door to chase after him and realized that Miz Poo was already halfway across the back yard.

Is it possible that Miz Poo – my Good Girl – had pushed the hole through the screen door, instead of Mister Boogers or Tommy, the Bad Boys? The mind boggles, because Miz Poo is SO much not the troublemaker, that I had a hard time believing she’d do such a thing.

I chased her down (she ran frantically for several feet, then laid down on her stomach and went flat as though I wouldn’t be able to see her), grabbed her up, and put her in the house, then did the same with Mister Boogers.

I looked around to be sure there were no other cats around, then went inside and counted cats to be sure they were all present and accounted for. For a few moments I was worried that Tommy had actually been the instigator with the hole-making and was long gone, but I found him lolling about on Fred’s bed.

I still can’t believe Miz Poo would push a hole through the screen. I prefer to believe that Mister Boogers did it, went outside, came back inside to see if he could do it, then Miz Poo saw him do it and pushed her way out.

Because she’s a Good Girl and he? He’s B-A-D.

* * *

Right now, Maxi and Newt are laying in the back yard asleep, looking as though they just finished Thanksgiving dinner and don’t plan to move for six to eight hours. Over by the chicken coop? The remains of a rabbit. A BIG rabbit. When Fred came into the bedroom this morning to say goodbye, he said “Don’t go over by the chicken coop. There’s some circle of life going on out there right now.” When pressed, he told me that Maxi was in the process of eating a rabbit that appeared to be bigger than she is. And there was a line of chickens standing and watching her.

When I got up an hour later and opened the blinds in the computer room, Newt was taking his turn at the rabbit, and Fred wasn’t kidding about the size of it. At this point there’s only one opening to the back yard that isn’t blocked by a gate, and we theorized that the rabbit got into the back yard and couldn’t figure out how to get out, and Maxi and/ or Newt took care of him.

That last gate can’t go up soon enough for me.

Speaking of Maxi and Newt, I have to say – they are some tiny, tiny cats. If they weigh more than 6 or 7 pounds, I’d be amazed. Considering that over the winter they got to the point where they were just this side of porky, to see them thinned out made me worry at first. I guess it’s all that hunting and good eating (rabbits, squirrels, LITTLE BABY BIRDS) that’s got them in such good shape. Compared to our cats (okay, okay, our INDOOR cats), who all weigh around 10 pounds, they’re teeny.

* * *

When my parents were visiting, we went down to Tuscaloosa one day to visit with my aunt and cousins. We had lunch out, and then went over to see my cousin Delina’s new house. She used to live right next door to her sister but decided that she needed a bigger house, and so bought a house about half a mile (if that) down the street.

The house is nice, but the back yard is what dreams are made of. I’ve seen realtors describe back yards to houses as being “park-like”, but didn’t know what that meant until I saw Delina’s back yard. It is AMAZING.

Delina’s dawg (one of two).

I covet this greenhouse (Fred said it’s more like a sunroom. Whatever it is, I covet it.)

When we got home, I showed pictures of the greenhouse/ sunroom to Fred and said “Make me one of these!” I’m not holding my breath, though. Isn’t it the cutest thing?

Like I said: park-like.

* * *

The mighty, mighty hunter.


2006: No entry.
2005: If I could just bottle that energy.

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