Let’s just get this out of the way. I love cats. Always have. We once had fourteen at our house on Huasna Road. I love dogs, too, and with passion, and I can understand them for the most part.

Not this cat. I do not understand this cat. I have never had a cat like this cat.

Hattie, our Humane Society adoptee, is beautiful. We adopted her precisely because she is black, and black cats do not get adopted. I have always had good luck with black cats, and Hattie’s the same. She is one of the most affectionate cats I’ve ever known in my seventy-one years on this here Planet Earth.

She is also a hunter-killer. At least twice a week, we find the remains of a deceased animal—be it bird, lizard, rat or mouse—in pieces on the bathroom floor. One of the rats was almost her size.

Ew.

We’ve gotten her bell collars, which she periodically loses, and then she goes on another Kitty Rampage.

This morning it was a mouse: fore, aft and some various anatomical curiosities in between greeted me when I got up. Hattie was sleeping next to me, a blissful look on her face.

I guess bringing home the kill means that I am in her Pride. I guess, too, that I am honored, but, frankly, as much as I love her, and as lovable and loving as she is, I wish she’d acquire a knack for bringing home In ‘n’ Out Cheeseburgers.

In the meantime, I thought that “Oops! I Did It Again” aptly describes Hattie’s personality.