Hi Ho Silver!

Quiet is not my strong suit but I creep with the stealth that people in horror movies never have when they are trying to outsmart the psycho killer with the hockey mask and the meat cleaver.

But Scott must be distracted because I literally sneak up on him.

Sneak up to find him positioned standing high on the bed where he is poised to wave a towel, lasso-style, presumably to whale on the little critter lest it run up his leg hairs and into his shorts unexpectedly.

He sees me see him and begins whirling the lasso/towel creating a big wind and frankly, a lot of noise. He claims to be intending to use the whirling terrycloth cyclone of doom to scare the cat from beneath the bed. I am not sure if the intention is for the mouse to go with the cat or remain under the bed when the cat runs for cover from The Loan Ranger. Frankly, I am skeptical that that was the purpose of the towel at all.

In any event, the whirling of the towel makes such a racket the Trinket streaks from beneath the bed, out into the hall, whizzing past me at break-neck speed, but slowly enough for me to see that she still has the mouse clasped between her teeth. Poor thing. It is probably hard to breathe like that, much less huff and puff as you run for your life.

I turn on a dime in my daughter's slip on fuzzy slippers, found and commandeered on the landing. (She's sort of a slob, my Hil. Leaves a little trail of debris like breadcrumbs in her wake.)
I hot-foot it down to the landing, spin and take off down the last turn in time to see which room Trinket turns to run in. The dining room. I assume she's under the dining table again. It's military genius. She has a great view and room to maneuver. Drats.

I have a brilliant idea. I suggest to The Lone Ranger, now having joined me on the first floor, towel still unholstered and in hand, that he make it seem really, really dangerous and unappealing to run toward the center hall or living room, while I make it seem like an easy break for Trinket to run into the kitchen. You know, he can wave the towel and jump around like a loon. No one in their right mind would dare go near him, even if your mind is the size of a Licorice Nib like Trinket's.


Then when she falls for it and is trapped in the kitchen, the interior of which is not unlike a walk in closet, with far fewer options for escape, we make it seem like a swell idea for her to run down the basement steps. When she does, I will dash to the landing with her water and close the door for the night. She can spend the night chasing Mr. Mouse and still have the benefit of water and her litter box, but no ability to go traipsing about the manse showing off her kill.

Trinket falls for it hook line and sinker, and Scott and I go off to bed in relative peace, after having jammed a towel under the basement door to prevent so much as a mouse paw to get through uninvited.

The next morning I can not fight my curiosity.

I go to the basement. Trinket is calm and peaceful. I expect to see her prize kill presented center stage in the middle of a hoola hoop or some similarly spectacular showy fashion.

Nothing.

I look around. The mouse isn't anywhere, and furthermore, Trinket is acting as though nothing has happened. (Maybe in that Licorice Nib brain, nothing has.)

I get her some food, freshen her water and continue looking for Mr. Mouse, all the while fearing that I am going to step on something gooey, yet crunchy, any minute.

Nothing.

I convince myself that Trinket chased and batted the little pathetic thing to the point of exhaustion or maiming. And then when it ceased to be any fun at all to play with, ignored it. It is my fervent hope that the heinous little varmint then limped outside to die.

Fingers crossed on that. But based on the way Trinket perches above the heat vent and swishes her tail each night, never giving in to distraction, I am sure I've not seen the last of the Meeces to Pieces.