I call this guy Not My Cat. Because he truly is not my cat.
That’s not his real name. I can’t tell you his actual name because he and I have an agreement. I asked his permission to feature him in my blog and he agreed upon promise of anonymity. Something about the pawparazzi and/or outstanding paternity suits.
He’s not my cat and I’m not his human. I’m his staff. His humans live upstairs. I rent my basement apartment from them and since his mom is my friend, we don’t bother locking the door to their part of the house. Not My Cat has decided that I’m allowed to let him outside. And then back in. And then out. Then in. Out. In.
You get my drift.
I’m his staff so I get to do this job for him. All. Day. Long. He summons me by meowing loudly. Very, very loudly. All. Day. Long. He meows at my kitchen window. He meows at the door between my apartment and his house. He meows at my French doors. Yes, my apartment has French doors. It’s lovely and fancy.
Not My Cat is also a serial killer. Not of people, as far as I know. Thus far he has kept his killing spree to small animals.
When I walk the path from my door to the front yard, I keep my head down, eyes to the ground. Not because I’m sad, or shy, or worried about being made by the pawparazzi. I’m worried about stepping on a dead mouse. Or half a dead mouse. Mouse asses, to be exact. Not My Cat leaves the ass and tail of his little mouse victims on the flagstone that serves as a pathway to the front yard. The stones are set far apart on the grass and were laid by a giant, I’m presuming, since no one of normal height could possibly step from stone to stone without stepping on the grass in between. Not My Cat has decided that these stones make a handy dinner plate and also serve to showcase his kill in a pleasing manner.
I didn’t bother to take a picture of a mouse ass on a stepping stone so you’ll just have to visualize that one. I thought that would be really gross and I do have my standards. Plus it’s winter and the stepping stones are buried under the snow.
I grew up with cats and I really do like them. Even Not My Cat. He’s kinda cute. Just don't tell him that because then he will get a swelled head and think he can just stick around and sleep on my furniture and drink my wine.
Let’s just let him think I’m simply his staff, shall we?