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Books About Life on a Farm Written Especially for People Who Like to Read! "Highly recommended reading." The Midwest Book Review Reviews & Readers' Comments |
LeAnn R. Ralph Rural Route 2 Author E6689 970th Ave. Colfax, WI 54730 (715) 308-6336 |
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by LeAnn R. Ralph Our Wisconsin farmhouse had been built in the late 1800s, and since it was rather drafty (or so my mother claimed), it stands to reason that if drafts could get in, so could mice. And yet when I was a kid, very few mice found their way inside. Except for one fall evening when I had a cold. I didn't feel all that sick, but I was running fever, and so Mom had told me to rest on the couch instead of going out to the barn with Dad to do the milking. I'd been dozing off and on and had just drifted back to sleep again when a shriek sounded from the kitchen. I woke up abruptly and was still trying to get my bearings when the odd "whomping" noise started. Struggling to my feet, I followed the strange noise through the kitchen and into the small hallway beyond. My mother was head and shoulders into the hall closet, flailing away with the broom. Well, maybe "flailing" is too strong a word. She couldn't get in a really good whack because of all the coats, clothes, shoes, boots and assorted boxes. "What's the matter, Mom?" My mother pulled back from the closet. "Mouse," she gasped. "I was wiping the table when it ran across the kitchen and went into the closet." "Oh." "And I DON'T want it to think it can make a nest in there, either," she added. Mom took a firmer hold on the broom and went back into the closet. After several minutes of listening to my mother's muffled muttering, I surmised that the mouse must have taken refuge in a back corner. Mom came out of the closet and closed the sliding door. She looked over at me. "Get a cat." I blinked a couple of times, unable to believe my ears. "A cat?" "Yes, a cat. That's why your father says we have so many -- to catch mice. So go out to the barn and get a cat." For years Mom had grumbled about the number of cats around the place, and as I headed out to the barn, it dawned on me that we were finally going to show her how useful cats could be. I knew just the one I wanted, too. The best mouser of them all -- Tiger Paw Thompson. Tiger Paw, a deeply-striped tabby, was a friendly cat who had, in fact, brought his catches to Dad and I many times so he could show them off. We'd be in the middle of milking, and suddenly Tiger Paw would appear with a mouse. Of course sometimes, the mouse would still be alive, and when Tiger set it on the floor, it would take off with Tiger Paw right after it, as well as every other cat in the barn. But still, the main thing was that Tiger caught mice. A lot of them. 'Oh, boy,' I thought gleefully as I walked across the yard, 'Mom won't complain about the cats after THIS.' Just as I reached the barn door, Dad came out with a bucket of milk on his way to the milkhouse. "You're sick. What are you doing here?" he asked. "I need a cat." "A cat?" I nodded. "There's a mouse in the closet and Mom said I should get a cat. I want Tiger Paw." Dad smiled. "He's by the cat dish." And with that, he headed off toward the milkhouse. Sure enough, when I opened the barn door, I found Tiger Paw crouched by the dish, lapping milk. The moment I picked him up, he started to purr, apparently unperturbed that I had interrupted his supper. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten that none of our barn cats were used to being in the house. And Tiger Paw was no exception. Although the cat continued to purr steadily all the while we walked toward the house, when we entered the porch, he abruptly stopped purring. One second, the sound of deep rumbling filled my ears. The next second -- complete silence. When we entered the kitchen, Tiger Paw began to struggle. Every evening, from the time the big tabby tom had been a kitten, I'd picked him and held him while we were doing the chores. Tiger Paw was no stranger to being held. He LIKED being held. During all the occasions when I'd picked him up, Tiger had never once unsheathed his claws. Until now. His back claws were digging into my arm and his front claws were raking my shoulder. I was glad I'd put on a thick hooded sweatshirt before going out to the barn. While I held the struggling cat, Mom opened the closet door. She took the broom and began nudging aside boots and shoes and boxes. But no mouse appeared. "Put the cat in the closet," she said. I briefly considered pointing out that since Tiger Paw wasn't especially thrilled about being in the house, he probably wouldn't want anything to do with the closet, either. But -- Mom had said put the cat in the closet, so I put the cat in the closet. In one frantic leap, Tiger Paw exited the closet and made a bee-line for the door. His striped tail was fluffed to twice its normal size, his golden eyes were wide with alarm -- and he was meowing pitifully. I let him outside. Tiger Paw jumped off the porch steps, and my last glimpse of him was as he rounded the corner of the garage, headed for the barn at top speed. "Hmmphhhh!" Mom huffed, when I came back into the kitchen. "What good does it do to have cats if they won't catch mice?" Poor Tiger Paw. And poor me, too. Here we'd had the perfect opportunity, and we missed our one chance to show Mom why it was a good thing to have cats. But that was all right, anyway, I guess, because at least Dad and I knew better. And so did an awful lot of mice. Incidentally, we never did find the mouse that had gone into the closet. He must have discovered some way to escape when Mom wasn't looking. But if he was a smart mouse, he stayed away from the barn. Because I was pretty sure that even though Tiger Paw had missed his first chance, he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. LeAnn R. Ralph is the author of the farm books: "Christmas in Dairyland (True Stories from a Wisconsin Farm) (trade paperback; 2003), "Give Me a Home Where the Dairy Cows Roam" (trade paperback; 2004), "Preserve Your Family History (A Step-by-Step Guide for Interviewing Family Members and Writing Oral Histories" (e-book; 2004). |
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