Of our three cats, Saffy is the fierce huntress of all things fake and mouse-like. Primarily, she hunts mice for my husband. We know this because when we go to bed at night, we hear her howling ("fresh-kill" cloth mousey between those ferocious teeth); she drops her victim at the bedroom door and then she jumps up and flops against John. He, of course, congratulates her, scritches and scratches her behind the ears, and showers "good girl" praises all over her furry frame. She's a daddy's girl, through and through, but she occasionally drops a mouse or two for me when John is out of town. It's a good thing I'm not relying on her to feed me, right?
Although the fakey mousies are a gracious gift, I can think of a thousand other presents I'd love for her to drop outside my bedroom door. How pleased would I be to wake up in the morning and find...
...my checkbook balanced and bills written out? Thanks, Saffy!
...a mocha latte with an extra shot? Thanks, Saffy!
...a clean basket of laundry folded? Thanks, Saffy!
...a plate of fresh pancakes? Thanks, Saffy!
...a note that says, "Leave me your keys, I'll get the car detailed"? Thanks, Saffy!
...a gift card for a 90 minute massage? Thanks, Saffy!
That would be cool. But alas, the now-and-again fakey mousey is the extent of her midnight offerings. Maybe I should forward the wish-list to John instead...