Monday, March 28, 2011

A Dearth Of Murder

It would seem, ladies and gentlemen, that not only is there a "hunting season," but that said season seems to have come to an end months ago.

Blame the chill hand of Ded Moroz. Blame the pervasive spirit of Christmas. Hell, blame whatever kept a ship full of Yautja warriors from killing Danny Glover at the end of Predator 2, if you must. In any case, the result is the same: months without a dead rodent, and a palpable sense of bloodlust welling within whatever part of Cat's brain is descended directly from the monstrous thunder lizards of yore.

Personally, I blame climate change. Like so many Ed Begley Jr.'s I see the shift to near-freezing nights as reason enough for Cat to stay inside, languidly stretched in front of a fire, instead of tearing throats and crushing spines. Can any of you say you'd rather be outside enjoying the tang of fresh arterial spray betwixt your jaws when the mercury drops to unholy depths?

I thought not. Still, as March comes to a close and the sun grows ever bolder, I have a dark feeling that hunting season is once again near at hand.

For the sake of Internet bloodlust, let's hope Cat feels the same.