She knew that her cats where't vegetarian like she was (God, she'd tried) but until recently they'd been content with having their dinner from out of the can. The vegetarian had found a small wood-mouse in her spare-room a few weeks-back, not moving, which one of her cats had been mewing towards in expectation of praise. Not received. The vegetarian buried the mouse in the back garden, and placed a large plant pot over the plot to stop the foxes.
It looked like there had been a struggle on the stairs. As well as the dark red blotches on the carpet, there were also Pollockian flingings of red across the cream walls & a soggy maroon puddle on the sofa. The vegetarian assumed it had been a pigeon or something, considering the height. The poor thing must still be in there somewhere, she reckoned.
The water in the vegetarian's bucket had turned grey, so she took it downstairs to the kitchen and emptied it in the sink. As the water spiraled down the plug-hole, the vegetarian looked out of the kitchen window. Her two cats sat on the wall outside, looking in - waiting patiently. Domestically. Her two cats only waited on the wall when the windows weren't open.
The vegetarian reached out for one of the knives by the sink.
Based on a true story. Written by Jen Ives.
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