I stupidly left a (confession: already mostly eaten) opened pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream out on the counter while I went and did something with Mog. I don't remember what--got him a refill on his juice? answered his question about what's dat on tv? (me: it's a whale; eliot: oh, a pish! me: sorta, only bigger).
And when I came back for it, not five minutes later, Mumford was up on the counter, bent over my ice cream, my precious Ben & Jerry's Cake Batter ice cream, licking it out of the carton. He looked up at me like, "Yeah, I'm eatin' your ice cream. So what, fucker?! Whatchya gonna do about it?"
I snarled and tried to grab him but he was too fast for me. I looked down at the thoroughly licked ice cream. I won't lie, I totally thought about eating it anyway. (Wouldn't be the first time I've eaten after a cat, right, Libby, you rotten brat??!!) But instead, I dumped it in the trashcan and started mentally plotting feline murder. And I'm not talking euthanasia here. I'm not talking take the dear thing to the vet and have him gently put down. I'm talking straight up cat murder. Brutal, vengeful cat murder. And that dignified Viking funeral I had planned for him is out, too. He'll be lucky if I don't just throw his sorry carcass to the coyotes.
Hairball puker. Claw scratcher. Ben & Jerry's licker. Dastardly Ben & Jerry's licker. That cat obviously has no soul.