Pulp NonFiction

I think I need a lawyer. And a good one, too. Like TV sleazy defense lawyer good. Because I think some one in this house has made a deal with the devil. And we gotta get out of that contract.

This morning, E takes dog out for constitutional in back yard. Comes back ringing the doorbell. I, being snappish, answer the front door, and say, "WHAT? Why didn't you come back in the back door?"
"Because the cat ate a squirrel and he probably has rabies and I don't want to touch it."
"Don't be ridiculous, the cat ate that squirrel a long time ago. He'd be foaming and dead by now if he had rabies."
"But MOM."
"Come on in, put the dog in the box, it's time to go to school." We gather the stuff for carpool.
I open the back door, and two cats are sitting there, looking royale.
At the bottom of the step. Disemboweled. Dismembered. Squirrel.
"Let me ask you cats something, do you see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"No. Do you know why you don't see a sign on my house that says dead squirrel storage?"
Cats stare blankly.
"Because storing dead squirrels is not my business."
Cats stare blankly.

I think some one has signed a deal with the devil, and dead vermin are the signing bonus. Since the Terminix god, I mean guy, came, cockroaches have been crawling out of the walls to die. (I don't mind cleaning those up at ALL.) But now, cats serving us extra rare squirrel pate seems a little excessive. I mean, is this our incentive? Aren't we supposed to get lots of money or sexy dates, or something like in the movies? No one ever said anything about dead squirrels in the contract-with-the-devil movies. I'm talking to you, Brendan Frasier.
The cats' pride made it even worse. They were so pleased that they had brought us most of the squirrel. Like, "what? You aren't happy? We only ate two legs and a kidney. We saved you the best parts! C'mon..."
Of course, the cats don't understand the explosiveness of the S situation. S sees that dead squirrel, he's gonna freak. I call M. The cavalry is at work. The cavalry is not gonna come and clean this up. It's all me. Shiver.
I gave the squirrel a fitting funeral for such an ignominious death. I scooped him with a garden trowel onto the plastic clam shell container of the new toilet flusher I bought, and dropped him in a double-layer Target bag and sent him off to the trash bin.
Just call me The Wolf.