From Franny Syufy,
Your Guide to Cats.
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You'll realize that you have won the love of your cat when he or she starts bringing you gifts. Domestic cats are natural hunters, and like the "big cats" they bring their prey to their "den". Unlike the big cats, however, a well-fed family cat will seldom eat his kill. Another reason for gifting you with "kill" is that cats consider you "family" and want to share with you. If you're visiting this site, you've probably already learned to contain your revulsion long enough to thank Kitty profusely, and then get rid of the offering when she isn't watching.

Our Bubba has been a particularly gracious gift-giver over the years. As was mentioned before, our son found him as a kitten, "playing with river rats" at a bridgehead near us. We have no idea how long he was there before being found, or if he had, in fact, had to kill to eat. However, whether by necessity, or by his mother's teaching, he has become a formidable hunter, up to a point.

A few years ago, our extended family was gathered at our house for Christmas Eve dinner. The weather was mild, and Bubba had been outside. Suddenly, amid shrieks from the ladies, he appeared at our sliding door, dragging a lump of *something*, easily half-again as large as he, between his front legs, much like a lion dragging a gazelle to the den. Bubba had bravely fought to the death a large clump of water hyacinths, known around these parts as "the scourge of the Delta", and having administered the coup de grace, brought home his contribution to dinner.

Our generous praise must have encouraged him, as this was only the beginning of a long string of offerings that continues to this day. One week in early summer, Bubba apparently found a nest of green baby snakes in the grass on our slope area. He delivered them to the floor next to my favorite counter stool, one-a-day for three days, each accompanied by appropriate "Thanks! Good Boy!" and subsequent disposal by yours truly. Were they alive? Don't ask!

It's Alive!

One spring weekend, Asa was taking advantage of the unseasonable warmth to do some gardening in our front yard. Bubba, as was his habit, accompanied him outside, then appeared half an hour later carrying a mouse in his mouth. Hesitant at interfering with the natural order of things, Asa watched for a few minutes. Bubba batted and pounced on the poor mouse, never biting him, but holding him captive. Finally tiring of his play, Bubba sat crouched in a Sphynx-like position with the mouse cradled under his chest, just the nose and frantically twitching whiskers showing as it nervously washed its face. Fortunately for the mouse, Bubba apparently lost interest, and the poor thing scampered away unharmed.

A couple of weeks later, at 3:00 a.m., I awoke to the call of nature, slipped out of bed, and skidded on something soft, slimy, and cold, under my bare feet. The ensuing ruckus was reminiscent of the Keystone Kops: "Aieeeeeeee!"
"What! Whazzamatter??"
"There's something cold and slimy on the floor!"
"Well, what IS it?"
"I don't know, but I STEPPPPPED on it!"
"Oh, for-----"
CLICK

Asa's bedside lamp came on to reveal a large dead catfish in fragrant splendor adorning the carpet next to the bed. (I guess I should have mentioned, our home is on the waters of the California Delta.) Bubba sat nearby, purring and grooming himself with pride. I gathered my aplomb, thanked him for his generosity, and asked Asa to remove the stinky thing. (After all, it is HIS cat.)