The girls' toy box has a certain air of carnage about it -- it's the home of Roadkill Bunny, Groovy Bear Leg and numerous other pieces-parts of beloved toys that have had limbs amputated, stuffing pulled out and other canine indignities visited upon their persons.
So yesterday, as I was working in the kitchen and FT was designing a webpage, we thought nothing of Gertie cavorting around the living room tossing and then pouncing on some furry object.
Then, for some reason, I happened to get a better look at what Gertie was flinging around the living room. It bore a resemblence to Roadkill Bunny, but it was the wrong color, and too small, too rigid and in too good a shape.
"What's Gertie playing with?" I asked FT, with some suspicion.
"I'm not sure," replied FT, deep in thought at her computer.
I left the kitchen counter to get a better look.
It was a chipmunk. A dead chipmunk. I shrieked.
"Gertie, LEAVE IT!" I commanded.
She obediently dropped the chipmunk, stiff with rigor mortis, right on top of my laptop.
We suspect that Mollie the cat dispatched the chipmunk and brought it into the house through the cat door, only to have it intercepted by Miss Gertrude. Neither Mollie nor Gertie are talking.