I really love her, our two year old Tart. “Snol” in Dutch. Yes that is how she’s called, our red pussycat. Two years ago I found her as a small kitten, too small for her age. I took her home with me when I saw her living in terrible conditions, living in her own shit, eating almost nothing just because they didn’t feed her on time, in a small room, hiding from big dogs and hardly getting attention. She was infested by flees and had her eyes infected. She just would be better of being away from that home.

 She loved it to be out of there I think. She just wanted to sit on our laps, cuddling, sniffing and purring all the time. She got more and more healthy every day and greeted everyone who came in our house. Our special little kitty cat.

 But she got healthy enough to get out of the house once in a while, and that’s when the trouble started. She took every cat that was homeless or sick to our home. Let them eat her food and sometimes it was necessary to call animal patrol to take away sick, pregnant, homeless cats, because I didn’t have the time or money to take care of them.  That’s how she got the name tart. And she listens to that name too. So I guess it’s the right name for her.

We were really sure after we came home from our holiday and saw four little kittens being born in spite of her being on medication so she couldn’t get pregnant.  She was a good mommy. Took care of her babies for almost eight weeks, kept them together and when she left home for a walk around the block, she always came by one of us, making sure that her babies were taken care of while she left. And because daddy cat was nowhere to be found and my home was too small for five tarts, we found the little kittens a nice home.        The little tarts had all left, and because there are enough cats around here without a home, we decided to take her to the vet to get an operation. No more little kittens for Tart.

 And that’s when the game started.

 I don’t know how she does it. But everywhere I go in the house I find them. Sometimes alive and that’s the trouble. Those little scared animals start to run everywhere. Making scary noises, knowing they won’t be there long before she comes and gets them. At least, after she’s has played with them for half an hour.

 I hate these games. I rather see those dead right away. Telling Tart she has to stop to take presents home for everyone isn’t helping. She thinks she’s doing a good job when she comes home at night, waking me up and putting a dead mouse into my lap.

 It doesn’t help to feed her more and when I try to keep her into the house, she starts to cry in her own pitiful way.  I guess I have to accept the fact that I have to stroll around the house every day, looking for the mousses she took home with her. And hoping, when I find them, that they are dead.

Ow, wait a minute. She is coming home again. And guess she took a present home with her. So let the game begin.