The New Guy

Mr. Mulch has long been my partner in our gardening adventures. That's not entirely accurate; I've been his gardening partner, and one might better describe me as a limited partner.  He has always exercised his farmer genes and, being completely honest, I've only recently evolved into his almost-equal, since he did the heavy lifting for so many years.  But since my new "retired status" means we both bust hump to empty a truckload of mulch now, and I'm available whenever it's not raining, the sweat equity balance is starting to even out.

So, naturally, it was time to add another garden helper.

Mrph looking very debonair

Meet Mrph, a two year old male orange tabby we adopted (well, I adopted; Mr. Mulch grudgingly didn't stop me) in December.  Mrph is his nom du blog, not his real name.  It's the sound he makes when he's looking for me -- and it definitely has no vowels in it.  It's what I should have named him had I waited to get to know him before I gave him a pretty stupid name which he actually answers to, so I don't want to change it and confuse him.  (For the record, it's not as bad as the name they gave him at the shelter: Thurston.)

Mrph joined us in December and kept me company as an indoor cat through the worst of the winter and my foot-recuperation.  He quickly adjusted to the rhythms of the household, bonded to "she who feeds me," and followed me as I hobbled around, asking for chin scratches and butt rubs. So cute and adorable; who knew that underneath that debonair and civilized veneer lay the heart of a hunter?!

Assuming the position

Our first clue came on a January day when I discovered him prone on the kitchen floor in a most undignified position, with his head wedged under a cabinet.  He spent the better part of an hour like that, undeterred even as I moved around him making lunch for Mr. Mulch and myself.  As we sat down to eat, I was relieved to see Mrph finally get up and assume his normal lope en route to the dining room. Then I noticed that he was strutting more proudly than usual... and then I looked even more closely...

Click to enlarge and see the evidence

That's not a toy in his mouth -- that thing with the pointy head containing two panicked beady eyes and a tail at the opposite end -- that's the real deal.  I don't know how he managed the extraction, but he was awfully pleased with himself.  The mouse was not so pleased, and even less happy once Mrph drop-kicked him and began a game of knock-hockey. At that point, we intervened and spared Mickey additional torment.

Mr. Mulch delivered the now-corpse back into the hands of mother nature and when he returned, it was clear that something more significant than rodent burial had transpired.

When you're a gardener, all those cute little critters -- chipmunks, mice, squirrels, moles -- are the enemy.  Our strawberries were ravaged by mice last year; chipmunks gnawed holes in our ripest tomatoes; squirrels went after the corn, and moles make a mess out of all that mulch we so carefully spread.

But Mr. Mulch now saw an ally where before he had only seen a concession! Lo and behold, Mrph had managed to do something I never imagined possible: endear himself to Mr. Mulch!

Mrph on guard as we harden off the lettuce

Happily, Mrph has taken to his new role as protector of the home turf with enthusiasm.  Since the snow melted, he has mastered the old doggie door we had installed for the big dogs we had when we first moved in, so he's free to hunt to his heart's content in the daylight (we keep him indoors at night -- there are coyotes in the area).

So far, the score is Mrph: 5 -- rodents: 0  He's caught mostly mice and moles so far, but we're optimistic he might graduate to larger garden pests like chipmunks... maybe even a squirrel now and them.

Supervising raking

For those who are anti-letting-cats-roam-by-themselves; I do understand the risks. But Mrph seems happiest outdoors, and doesn't stray far. We spend a great deal of time in the garden, and he's always nearby, supervising for as long as we're out.

Supervising pruning

I worry more that he doesn't understand insects, and loves chasing wasps and bumblebees. Our late Boxer, Guinness, once managed to catch and eat a bumblebee.  His face swelled up as large as a catcher's mitt.  I don't think Mrph would enjoy that, though it would look pretty funny.

"Supervising" blogging

At the end of the day, he's no dummy.  He knows where his food, bowl, and bed is.  And treats.  Lots of treats.


And it's really nice to have a fur-person back in the house.