It's the Little Things...

It's like... Well, you know that old antique mantel clock your great-grandmother always had sitting out? And you have hundreds of fond memories of just staring at that clock...? And when she died, you somehow ended up with said clock, and have had it sitting on your mantel so that you can relive those fond memories of your great-grandmother... And life is wonderful and happy and full of fond memories and the sound of a ticking clock...

Then something happens that calls into question the placement of the clock... Say, for example, a psychotic kitten who you are convinced was actually Jeffrey Dahmer in his last life... (So much for karma...) It may be the way he stares intently at the radio perched on the windowsill near the tub... Or that he just happens to find that steak knife too much fun for words as he bats it around the house... Or that he even knows where to find another steak knife once you've picked the first one up and locked it in the dishwasher...

I think the clincher, what finally made me realize Little Wet Paws (his Native American name due to his endless fascination with anything H2O related) was in fact a reincarnated serial killer was the methodical way he hunted... Now, I've had cats before. I've seen them hunt. Pavement was an excellent hunter/killer; Spot couldn't kill a fly to save his life. Cleo? She went in fits and spurts depending on what I filled her food bowl with...

But Beaux? It's insatiable joy. Nothing is sacred. Nothing is safe. Nothing, I dare say, will survive. It's almost like that Chucky doll--you know, the one everyone thought was too adorable for words even as he slashed into your face with that giant carving knife? "My buddy and me like to climb up a tree, my buddy and me... We're the best friends there could be!" Slash, slash, clunk! "Whoops! Sorry buddy!"

Uh-huh... It's... The little things...