Cat and Mouse, Part Deux

I race to get ready for work now that I’ve spent precious primping time chasing an injured mouse with a broom. I am sweating, shaking and a nervous wreck. And I have no idea whether I’ve seen the last of the mice. It is THAT time of year and I have pretty much opened the doors to them. They all want to come in and enjoy the warmth of a cozy home. Thank God Trinket objects.

I eventually make it to work after scrapping the original proposed outfit idea and selecting something that needs less tweaking. No ironing and no trips to the other closet where the rest of the new season’s wardrobe remains hanging waiting for the real wool weather to arrive.

As I dress I notice that Trinket is very subdued. She appears to have been running all night. My Flying Kitty is taking the steps one at a time, front paws then back in “time to make the doughnuts” fatigued slowness. Poor kitty is pooped. She’ll snooze in her little bed in the warmth of the sun for hours.

At lunch time, I prepare go to prepare my salad and enjoy the company of a colleague who I’ve known for years. Long before I came to this job. I tell her about my mouse situation, which to most people, I would think, would be like telling them I have lice. It makes people wonder about what kind of housekeeper you are and conjures up scenes from movies like Willard. But she’s been to my home so she knows it isn’t piled floor to ceiling with Chinese Food containers and half-eaten corn dogs on sticks. She also lives on a farm with chickens and bees and other less-than-traditional wild life and knows an occasional mouse goes with the territory.

“You know that mouse is going to come right back in, don’t you?” she says with a smile.

Honestly, I hadn’t thought about that. I understand that the mouse has a brain the size of a corn kernel. I also thought that after this morning’s show down and a near death experience with Trinket, that the mouse would be thinking, in its tiny little synaptic junctures, “No way am I going in there again!” and heading to a neighbor’s house to look for a crevice to squeeze through. But apparently a return visit is more the norm.

I open the fridge in the common lunch room to retrieve my salad. One whiff and I am sure that something in there has died and is on its way to Hell.

Oh. My. God. What if the mouse comes back and just inside the walls, drops dead from the heart attack it was surely on its way to having this morning?

The smell. Oh my what a smell that would be! I can think of little else the rest of the day.

That night I return home to a normal calm household. No hint of the drama from the morning. Hil and Pat and I enjoy dinner, review homework, talk about Scouting trips that are on our horizon and begin to wind down for the evening. Which for me means laundry.

I step into the basement to find Trinket ready to pounce. Again, two feet in front of her is a little gray mouse. The same gray mouse. Only this time it appears to be dead. Or playing dead. They do that. How convenient.

I say to Trinket (as though she’ll answer) “Is that your mouse, Trinket. Is it dead?”

And as if on command she swipes at it and hangs a nail in the poor little thing and wings its carcass into the air. Then pounces on it and wrestles with it before flinging it toward the steps where it rolls awkwardly toward my feet. Which causes me to jump up and down on alternate feet with a similar lack of grace.

Hil hears my involuntary shriek and has come to the basement. Trinket in the meantime tries to hide her prize underneath the stairs with all the dust bunnies and other debris. Much to Hil’s horror, I sweep the little lifeless thing onto a piece of cardboard. I look at it closely (which grosses Hil out even more) to make sure it has its tail. Why one more lost in the house would matter, I don’t know.

Hil walks with me to the basement bathroom where I intend to flush it. She stops me to say a few words of prayer. She loses me at “Please bless Sir Squeaksalot…” I flush and watch it orbit the hole and eventually go down.

But in all honesty, I stand and linger a little longer to make sure it doesn’t magically swim back to the bowl to try to save itself. I am not sure I could stand the horror.