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Published on January 5, 2008

Even the dogs on my little soi are silent. My cats are curled in cat-puddles around me, and my pup Wan-Wan is also curled up nearby in a poodle puddle.

Suddenly, the silence is pierced by a high scream. I don't have to turn my head to tell where it's coming from. Puddles no more, the cats are staring at the door to the patio. Wan is less hesitant. Barking hysterically, she runs outside, followed by my one-eyed Siamese Angel, and then myself.

Yoyo, the brat-cat, is always outside, guarding the house against errant soi cats.

Right now, he's not on sentry duty, though. At first, I think he's caught a bird, but instead of feathers flying around, something long and stringy is hanging from his mouth.

Wan begins whining. If Yoyo has something in his mouth, she wants it too. She gives him doggie kisses as in "Please! Please! Please!", but Yoyo is not about to give up his prey.

No longer a friendly domestic cat, he has turned into a mighty hunter. His eyes have a distant look, much like a lion who's taken down a gazelle. Yes, Yoyo's caught a mouse, which is firmly in his mouth. The tail is no longer twitching, so it must be a late mouse.

Just then, Yoyo notices me. I may be his friend and companion, but he's learned from past experience that I take away any bird or lizard he's caught. No way will he let me have his prize catch.

The mouse still firmly between his jaws, he gracefully sidesteps me and races up the stairs, the pup chasing after him. I know immediately that he's taking it to my bed on the second floor. Terrible images of dismembered mouse on my pillow prance through my mind.

Yoyo sees me coming and heads for the next floor, but I catch him. He growls menacingly, but he can't bite me without letting go of the mouse. I take the grumbling cat outside to the patio, close the screen door and wait.

As Wan yelps hysterically inside, Yoyo takes the mouse under a turtle tub.

Suddenly, it glides out, followed by the cat, who, safe from me and the dog, is now doing a victory dance. He prances around the body, occasionally tossing it into the air, following the instincts passed down to him by his ancestors, those mighty hunters.

Slowly he tires of his sport. As he sprawls out a bit away from the mouse, I zip outside, plastic bag in hand. I manage to scoop it up without touching it, tie the bag tight and dump it in the rubbish.

Early the next morning, I slip out to my vet's, where I purchase enough Revolution to handle any tick or flea that has jumped from the mouse to a cat.

I'm not worried about the doggie, who receives a dose of Topline between her shoulder blades every month for ticks.

It takes some time, though, before I can come near Yoyo. He's still upset that I took his mouse away.

By Laurie rosenthal  

The Nation 

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Fax (02) 751 4446 or e-mail laurie@nationgroup.com.