It was a foregone conclusion, really. Three cats, one mouse. I guessed that something was up when neither Clancy, Amelia or Moe slept with me. They didn’t respond to the morning call “who’s hungry?” They were gathered around the bookcase in the guest bedroom in a way that said, without question, “there’s a mouse in the house.” 

The waiting game played out until mid-morning, when Moe skulked into the living room, growling uncharacteristically, avoiding me, hunkered over something he was protecting with every bit of will. The mouse.

No blood. Just the little lifeless body that I finally got Moe to surrender. Which of the three cats was the actual executioner? There’s no way to know. Catching and killing: That’s what cats do. And little man Moe with his big personality was, for a moment, 100% wild cat; the animal he dreams of being when his legs and lips twitch in dreams. But I couldn’t help but feel sad for the cute little taupe and white mouse that didn’t know what he was getting himself into.