Our black cat, Millieandra or “Millie” or “Mills” or “Me-Me” or a slew of words that I won’t type here while she traces between my legs coming down the stairs in the darkness is now about eight and a half.
She loves this couch. This perch. Where she can plot and scheme on what she’s hunting next. We explain to EK that it’s just in her nature. That all felines (not that we’re experts) are hunters. They bring their catches in and show them off to those they care about.
And Millie must care A LOT about us. I think the lizard population in East Dallas is about half now. And not just figuratively. She learned after an animal hospital stay that eating a whole lizard, head and all, didn’t do well for her digestive system. Or our wallets. So, we routinely get half lizards in various places inside our house. That’s a dad clean-up job. Stepped on one the other day, and Millie was called another one of those words.
Lizards, locusts, birds (thankfully not our friend, Flit the hummingbird… although, I haven’t seen him in a while…), rabbits, grasshoppers, mice, moles, etc. It’s fairly safe to say, I need to report her to the authorities.
But we still love our Millieandra just as much as she loves (or tolerates) us.