Waking up to the sound of brains being consumed is something I'm familiar with. Usually it's a vole or snowshoe hare. I always figured the kitties liked things that are crunchy on the outside and gooey on the inside.
What was new this morning was the smell. A faint putrescence wafted across the room. My first thought, that the cats had brought home some carrion, would prove to be wrong. Annoyed that my sleep had been disturbed, I kicked John and said "Your stupid cat is eating something stinky. Could you please go take care of it?"
Mind you, I can handle blood and gore and stink just fine. What I don't handle well is having to get out of bed any earlier than absolutely neceessary.
Then I noticed - John's leg wasn't warm. That just doesn't happen. He's always warm, even at forty below. Forgetting about the cats for a moment, I flipped on my reading light, worried about John.
Holy Mary Mother of Frogs. His hands and chest were covered with scratches, but he didn't seem to be very bloody. I checked his ABCs - airway was good, but no breathing, and no circulation. Oh Shit. Now I'm feeling freaked out that he's dead, and that I've been in bed with a dead body.
Hell. Well, I've dressed myself, and updated from the bedroom (thank you wi-fi!). I think I should check and see what's going on in the living room...
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4 comments:
"Holy Mary Mother of Frogs" is my new favorite expression.
Also, I love, love the fact that when it's dead (or undead) it's John's cat.
Happy end of the world! -- Cindy (posting slowly today as I'm overrun with ... customers. Not zombies.)
You don't have more cats do you?
Happy end of the world to you, too. It's quiet and sad down here in the NW... it's hit us pretty hard. ;)
If you still have power, the vacuum cleaner should repulse zombie kitteh indefinitely. They're real brave until you start doing some housecleaning--and then there's not enough space under the bed for them to hide in.
I hate zombies.
(hides in basement)
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