Why I love a serial killer...

We have never been cat people.  We've had dogs, fish, lots of kids, etc.  But NEVER a cat.  Then 12 years ago that changed.  A cat broke into our house.  A kitten really; not even 9 months old.  But we couldn't figure out how she got in. So we tossed her out.  And she got back in again.  And again.  We even moved and she stayed.  Finally, after being told by many that she wouldn't leave because she had adopted us, we kept her.  

The Serial Killer, now known by the benign name of Freckles, was grateful.  So she brought us "gifts". Lots of gifts.  Unwanted, completely disemboweled gifts.  Every. Day.  Rats, squirrels, chipmunks, snakes, lizards, birds, bunnies - the only profile was that if she could kill it, she did.  The line in the sand was finally drawn when she brought me a opossum.   There is no fear like having the dead opossum on the end of a shovel to take out of your house.  Is it dead? It is playing dead? How did she get it through the cat door?  At this point we took away her cat door, and boy was she angry.  Gone were the gifts. Nose in the air, she wouldn't even look at us, except to meow at the door to let her out - then let her back in five minutes later.  She trained everyone - us, friends, neighbors - we are all at her beck and call.  We are now her slaves.

Along the way, against our will, we fell in love with this cat.  Even though death lay in her wake (I mean, seriously killing over 300 things a year THAT WE FOUND), we find that we love her like one of the family.  Now she is an old lady cat - laying around sleeping almost all the time, except for those times when she "remembers" that she is a cat, and does some crazy cat thing like leap 10 feet onto a railing.  But - isn't she cute?