Mojo is a no-go, but I love him anyway

I recently watched the show "Cats 101" on Animal Planet. I learned the American short hair cat was brought to the U.S. from England because of its great hunting skills.  Rats were dispatched quickly and efficiently on those old sailing ships by these master mousers, whose legacy lives on in today's domestic cat.

I looked over at my cat, who was sound asleep and snoring next to me. As a hunter, Mojo is a big disappointment.

In the beginning, my Mojo was the largest and fiercest kitten in the litter. Feisty and curious, he'd knock over his smaller siblings to get a glimpse at whatever was going on. He'd race through an open door to get inside the house he was forbidden to enter. His mama's owner said the family was thinking of keeping this furry ball of energy. The even named him Brutus. I changed his name to Mojo and took him home that day.

How this tiny tiger grew up to be an over-sized scaredy cat is often debated in this family. 

"After his balls got cut off, (aka neutered) he lost his edge," one kid would opine.  "And you over-fed him. That's why he's so fat!" the other kid would add.

"Not fat, big boned!" I'd retort.  But I would have to agree Neutered Mojo was way more mellow than Mojo Uncut. 

Mojo is an indoor cat and seems fearful of the icky critters that find their way in the house. He has never caught a single gecko.  He watches roaches and ants from a safe distance. When the kitchen was invaded by a couple of mice,  he would not step one paw into that room. Sadly, the only mouse Mojo every attacked was tethered to my laptop.

My step-cat Ricki was the complete opposite of Mojo and my hubby often reminds me of HIS cat's hunting prowess. Ricki, he brags, would kill centipedes...CENTIPEDES...the ones with poisonous fangs! Ricki would catch geckos and toy with them before the inevitable kill. And when we lived close to the mountains, Ricki would roam the great outdoors and gift us with chewed up rat carcasses. 

Tonight a juicy gecko is lurking somewhere in my bedroom. This means a sleepless night worrying the darn thing will fall on me from the ceiling or crawl across my legs. Where is Mojo? My Mojo is lying on my bed with a dead roach stuck in his belly fur. A larger and equally lifeless roach is in his litter box. A part of me dared to hope my Mojo's hunting skills finally kicked in and he killed both roaches like American short-hair cats have done for centuries. But my hubby, with his Vulcan logic, quickly brought me back to reality.

"I think they both died of natural causes," he said plainly.

Sad, but true.  And the gecko will probably die of old age.

The roar of the great Mojo! Actually, he just woke from a nap.

Looking for attention...and a snack.

Mojo impersonating a meat loaf.