The first one arrived on Sunday.
I’d been reading on the patio while eating lunch (liverwurst and cream cheese on rye, if you must know), and I needed to take a restroom break. I’d already crossed that space of floor several times over the preceeding two hours, and there had been nothing strange or dangerous about it, then. No obstacles were there to block my path, save the two dogs who are my near-constant escorts when I am home (they like to dance canine circles around my feet as I walk).
I looked down, and froze.
“Fuzzy,” I yelled. “Miss Cleo did something bad.”
I don’t know why I assumed the culprit was Cleo. Perhaps because the thing on the floor was larger than Zorro’s head? Perhaps because he’s never shown interest in any animal that wasn’t a member of the family rodentia? In any case, her usual game of “chase the birds and try not to fall in the pool” made Cleo the obvious scapegoat.
“What is it?” he asked. “Did she pee on the floor?”
“No.” Could he not hear the tremulous note in my voice?
“Did she leave presents?” (Our euphamism for more solid doggie deposits)
“Not the way you mean,” I said. “Come here. Bring the dust pan.”
And so I told him, “Miss Cleo murdered a bird.”
Except we’re not so sure she did, because the corpse formerly inhabited by the soul of a robin had no marks that pointed to being a canine chewtoy. It was, simply, dead. As if it had dropped there for no apparent reason. Neither dog showed any interest in the ex-creature.
Then last night – or early this morning – another arrival. The dessicated husk of a gecko that had been lying on the edge of the patio was deposited in the same spot. This is odd, as it was not there when Fuzzy escorted the dogs to bed after their evening consitutional, and they were not let out again til morning, at which time the object was spied. (He carried it outside to the garden).
I told Fuzzy we must have a feline poltergeist, as I know Cleo isn’t fast enough to catch a gecko.