Yesterday, I rescued a birdie boo* from the jaws of The Daemoness. I picked her up with the bird in her mouth. As I carried her to find a suitable place to release the bird, she loosened up her clench & off flew the bird! I didn’t see that coming.
Once again, I am on her Hoomans Who Will Eat Hot Death list.
I didn’t help myself this morning when she tried to sneak out the door before the sun was up. Members of the esteemed Kitty Committee aren’t allowed out when it’s dark. I scooped her up (she’s not a fan of traveling by hooman), walked out the door & hollered for Penny Dreadful to get her Hell Hound butt in the house. Fun fact, hound dogs tend to have a one-track nose & enviable laser focus that turns off their hearing. Penny finally galloped into the house. I walked back inside with one Daemoness tucked in my arms.
I looked at her and said, “There. You got to go outside before the sun is up!”
Surprisingly, my Eat Hot Death shield saved me from becoming a pile of smoldering pet hooman ash. I’m a glutton for punishment as I can’t resist a tortie cat.
*Don’t judge. I believe referring to birds as “birdie boos” began when the kids were much younger and had parakeets. It’s become part of our families’ vernacular. We also call hamburgers “hangaburgers” because of Bunnola. Dirty dishes are now “dirly” dishes when I forgot to cross the t on the dishwasher sign.