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Thursday, October 11, 2007


On Sunday morning I awoke to find the cats batting around a poor dead mouse.
(Really cute little bugger.) G. was still asleep, so I wrapped up Mousie in
a cozy rag made of discarded, tattered silk thermal underwear and set him
outdoors under a tree. I covered him in leaves and asked the Other Mice to
stay away from our home, for witness the fate that hath befallen their

In the days since, I have seen the cats staring with too-great interest
under the oven. I said more than once, "G., there must be mice living under
the stove. Would you please take a look?" I was feeling some primal part of
my brain taking over, the part that would shriek and run at the site of a
mouse. I didn't even know that part was in there. But G. replied that mice
couldn't be living there, because how would they get to the second floor?
This made absolutely no sense, especially in light of the recent, dead
mouse, but I let it go. G.'s hypothesis? That the cats had batted their toys
under the oven and were trying to retrieve them. To his credit, this does
have precedent. But in light of recent events, it was unlikely.

Last night, when I padded to the kitchen for my 1:30 AM drink of water, the
cats were really interested in whatever was happening under the stove. I was
feeling a little keyed-up anyway, having enjoyed too much oolong tea too
late at night. It freaked me out. I returned to bed, convinced that at any
moment, a cat (specifically, Luna), would jump on the bed and triumphantly
drop a mouse near my face, or on my legs, or...And that said mouse would be
only half-dead and proceed to crawl over me. For the rest of the night, any
time G. stirred, even the tiniest bit, I was awake with a gasp and a
shudder, certain it was time to Meet The Mouse.

This morning, I arose 45 minutes late (tired and still feeling wired) to
find Luna, sure enough, madly batting a dead mouse across the kitchen floor.
Previous Mousie appeared to have perished by a little heart attack at the
mere sight of cats. Today's Mousie looked like the cats killed him in a more
active manner. Poor Mousie II. I admit to feeling a surge of pride in my
cats, who I never guessed could have pulled off any real hunting. They
usually chase moths, who evade the cats with their wily moth tactics.

I woke up the ever-sleeping G. and explained that, given my whopping 15
minutes to get out the door after oversleeping, he would need to dispose of
the mouse. And I also invoked Gender Roles ("I'm invoking Gender Roles," I
said) so that he would have to inspect beneath the stove. I could feel that
my Primal Mouse-Fearing Brain had swallowed Mind of Rational, Modern Woman,
to my great surprise and chagrin. We took a moment to iron out the proper
instances for invoking Gender Roles, as neither of us had done that before,
and then he agreed to check the mouse infestation.

"But how could they get to the second floor?" he asked, bewildered. "They
CLIMB," I replied.


Blogger Narya said...

They may also make nests in the oven insulation . . . just sayin.

I believe that Ron Sullivan had that experience.

9:31 PM  
Blogger kStyle said...


10:35 PM  
Blogger Larry Jones said...

I love this story. It has everything: intrigue, suspense, love, death, the invoking of Gender Roles, all told with sweetness, wit, charm and (k)Style! The mousies have reawakened the Writer in you, my dear.

12:09 AM  
Blogger kStyle said...

Thanks, Mr. Jones! That's sweet.

10:19 PM  

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