Not at Home

Valentine’s Day was a Sunday that first year, I remember.  The cat marked the occasion by presenting us with three headless voles left on the doormat.  We didn’t think anything of it, since some cats are like that. It’s in all the books. But the next holiday, St. Patrick’s, he presented us with a brace of cleanly eviscerated rabbits. On Easter, it was an enormous gopher, its skin neatly flensed as though by a surgeon. This continued every successive holiday, the  prizes on the doormat ever larger, ever more gruesome. This is why we spend every holiday out of town.


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