Oh Meeces to Pieces!

Trinket is a mouser.

And I say this with absolute certainty.

I suspected she was, because truthfully, some cats aren’t, because of her behavior upon arrival at my house. She not only took to the basement, but went immediately and with purpose to a place in the basement where there is the potential for exposure to the outside, and therefore, to things that typically live outside. Like mice.

And her posture as she sat, staring, waiting and positioned to pounce, was even more of a giveaway. My cat Morris from my childhood would not have so much as quickened his pulse over a mouse any more so than the Man in the Moon. Unless the mouse became a nuisance to Morris personally, it could be dancing a jig on the end of the damn cat’s nose and he wouldn’t have raised a paw to swat it away. Morris was definitely not a mouser.

Then one night, not so long ago, as Scott and I lay falling asleep, I heard a muffled meow. Muffled may not be the right word. It was hollow. Throaty. Not Miss Meowypants’ usual meow.

And it was urgent. Repetitive. Something was wrong. I could tell. Just like the way a mother knows which cries mean “I’ve got the crankies.” and which cries mean “My hair has gone on fire.”

I looked down from the bed and could see Trinket’s silhouette on the light carpet. And could see that she was wildly batting at something on the floor with both paws. Really fast.

The thought balloon by my head read “Please God let it be the leopard print catnip mouse Trinket goes mad for…”

But I had to be sure.

Scott was nearly asleep but I asked anyway. “Would you mind if I turned on the light? It won’t be a second.”

He was instantly awake and agreed to the light. Maybe it was my voice. Nuanced as it was with sheer panic.

Rather than hop out of bed where I can turn on the light with the dimmer and thus not blind Scott and me both, I opt for the “no feet on the floor until I know what’s there’ choice and turn on the bedside table. Which provide illumination not unlike that of a surgical suite. Woo hoo!

I look down at Trinket and immediately ascertain that it is most definitely not the leopard print catnip mouse. This mouse is small and gray and damp with saliva and has a long tail NOT made of rawhide dangling from it.

And of course I shriek and Trinket takes off for another area of the house, which seems endless and sprawling, like the world does to a man who’s lost his hat on a windy day.

Woe is I.