Dear kitten: I see that you’re auditioning for the part of First Farm Cat, but if you’re going to bring me a mouse, you could at least finish killing it. This is the second one in as many days. No, I truly appreciate the sentiment; you think I’m a big, dumb, hairless cat who doesn’t know how to hunt, so you’re taking care of me. But if you want to take care of me, drag me home a Snickers bar or an Egg McMuffin or a world class chef. Is that so hard a concept? People food, or people to make me people food. I don’t need a broken, twitching mouse trying to belly-crawl under my desk like a wounded solider on the beach in Saving Private Ryan. I didn’t even have socks on. It flapped at my toe.

And now, I must put a rodent out of its clear & obvious misery. That was not on my To Do list. I can’t leave it twitching, but I can’t bear to watch while I finish your job.
Sincerely, the grossed-out lady with the hammer and paper towel at 5:30 am.
Ps. Where the hell are its other two legs? If you buried them in the couch cushions or something, we’re going to have words, mommy to furface.