So I’m sitting in the living room with Arthur and a couple of friends, knocking off a bottle of wine, when we hear this loud, high-pitched squeaking/scraping sound. It sounds exactly like when the cats scratch at the deck doors; nails on glass. But it’s not coming from the direction of the deck.
Then we see the mouse.
May I pause for a moment to emphasize that I don’t live out in the country? In fact, when I did live out in the country, I’d occasionally see mice in the house, but they were field mice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a house mouse before.
The house mouse is much smaller than a field mouse. It looks just like one of those little toy mice we bring home for the cats to attack and devour. Except, y’know, not bright pink. Or green.
So there it was, bold as you please, walking across the living room, not even trying to be discreet. And may I say, uglier than a field mouse as well. At this point, the Gang of Two are going bonkers, and Arthur’s all “What do we do?” And the rest of us just say, “That’s what we pay these cats the big bucks for” and sit back to watch the show.
Sure enough, about fifteen seconds later, Mighty Mighty Mingo trots across the room, all “I am the Hunter, Fear me!” with a mousie in his mouth, and we all applaud. And Christine points out that cats like to toy with their prey and tend to be disappointed when they’re finally dead. As if to prove her point, a minute later we hear the squeaking again. Mingo has let his toy run free so he can get more exercise. Or maybe he’s just sharing with his sister (not bloody likely).
The next morning Arthur is up before me and he calls and says “Hey Mom? You know how when we bring them toy mice they tear the stuffing out of them and leave them inside out in the middle of the room?”
Yep. That’s what they do all right.
