We were thinking this could be the name of the farm. "House of dead cats" (has a certain ring in Spanish) since we have had so much luck with trying to introduce barn cats to the property. Four out of four. Not good odds, for us or the cats. The last cat just showed up. A scrappy black and white fella that started eating the food I was leaving for that ghost Frankie Blue Eyes. When I saw the dogs go straight for the cat house one day I thought, finally, Frankie decided to settle in and get neighborly. It wasn't him. It was the black and white barn cat drawn in by the vittles I left.
The cat didn't seem to bothered by the dogs and was there for about a week. We had begun to think maybe he was not a he and was pregnant looking for a place to birth her kittens. Actually, I think it was sick and looking for a place to "go".
J came home from work and Jagger, the new boxer was bloody as an Irish scrapper at a rugby match. J found the cat, or a stiff version of the cat, in the dog pen. It had been there quite a while, likely before J put the dogs in the pen before heading to work. Anyway, Jagger got in a match with our other boxer Ananda. You know, those high value dog toys.
I am not really as cavalier as I may sound. We have come to accept that barn cats, right now, are not for us. We will settle for the chickens, guineas, boxers, hawks and owl for now. And one day, Jagger and Ananda will make peace and stop acting like rowdy brothers. Right? It will happen, won't it?