It always makes me sad. Sigh and shrug. C'est la vie, n'est pas? It depends. In the cool of the morning when I open the back door to sniff the changing seasons, I have often nearly stepped on one of the gifts left me by my Mafia cat, delicately laid out for my approval and repast. I hear a gravelly voice, "Attention! Monsieur! C'est moi." Sure enough, it is the ghost of the mole from The Wind in the Willows. Apparently he has been living in France since I last met him.
It disturbs me when my cats do this even though I know that they are just being the playful velociraptors that they are. But still... Mr. Mole? Where did you put his vest? Now I will admit that though I am bummed for Mole, I am a tad glad about our hero's untimely demise because as an artist, this gives me an opportunity to study and sketch a fine specimen.
This mole had fur as elegant as any mink or ermine. A ditch digger dressed for the opera. I know he sang while he dug with his own hands. Powerful over sized hands and hardened claws with dirt under the nails. Doing his job with gusto! He was still chewing on a stick. Some root or herb from Provence.