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Never send a pussycat to do a weasel’s job


Stoator, God of Weasels. Nobody ruin Weasel’s fun pointing out it’s probably an otter, ‘K?

Another Kinkadian run in the country today. We stopped in a little village for refreshments in a self-consciously quaint tea shop (this part of the country is lousy with such places: grossly overpriced and fatally twee, but the food is usually excellent. Even I pronounced the fruitcake edible). We found this lil’ feller in the antiques shop next door.

Later, while Uncle B enjoyed a well-deserved nap, the cat hooked a paw under my chair and pulled out a little mouse. Then he got away. Again and again and again. We chased that poor little bastard from the chair to the couch to the bookshelves and back again for an hour before I gave up and woke up The Badger. (I needed someone to lift the couch while I threw a tea-towel over the bugger).

After another half hour of this roundy-round, the cat got bored and wandered away, Uncle B declared himself not an expert on the catching of mice, and I finally managed to slip a flowerpot over the exhausted rodent. Hardly as big as my thumb, he was, and panting hard.

Somewhere in the hedge tonight, a sadder but a wiser mouse is telling a breathless tale about a cat, a badger and a weasel.

God, I’ve died and gone to Toontown.

May 14, 2009 — 7:59 pm
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