Bling Bling in the ATL

I always used to say that cats, lacking a theory of mind, are incapable of love. Got home from work last night late... kittys were inside sleeping. So cute. Jack is incredibly cute and cuddly when he's tired. He gives me all these sidelong looks, and then curls up on the futon. If you pick him up he makes this little soundless squeak and doesn't open his eyes.

So I'm walking around, snacking, tidying up (when I should be deep cleaning, really) and I realize theres fresh blood all over the kitchen floor. Its smeared where the kittys have tracked through it, and then there are bright red clots where they haven't.

I ask Jack and She-Ra why theres blood on the floor. No response.

I check my hands to see if I've cut myself.

Nope.

I do a full body check on the kittys, kinda like Sara Connor on John Connor as they're speeding away from the shootout at the mental institution. Four limbs, two eyes, tail, Check! Kittys are intact.

So I get the floor sponge and start scrubbing. I notice theres little pools in the corners of the wall, where a cat might bat something until it can't be batted any farther, and so they bat it really hard until it bounces out, and thats when I realize that my little darlings are all grown up, they've gone and killed me a present. I follow the trail of blood into the bedroom, over the vacuum cleaner, under the bed, and there it is: a slobber and blood covered chipmunk in all his dead glory, belly-up next to the bloody sci-fi page turner I borrowed last week from the boy.

Now thats love.