Friday, December 02, 2005, 19:31
A Mouse in the House
I wonder how many mice I've stepped on lately in the house?
Or maybe the better question is -- I wonder how many times I have stepped on the same mouse lately?
They are cute little mice.
One is turquoise. One is orange. One is orange and white. And one is green and white. They come with pink ears, too, although I have noticed the ears do not last long. I keep finding bits of pink felt around the house that I know used to be mouse ears.
They are Sophie's mice. They are made out of rabbit fur. And Sophie positively adores them.
She also likes to stash them under the throw rugs. Which is why I keep stepping on mice.
To tell you the truth, there are more than the orange one, the turquoise one and the orange and white one and the green and white one. Probably about a dozen more. But I don't know where they are. Apparently, Sophie does not know where they are, either. Under the washer and dryer? Under the refrigerator? Under the stove? Or behind something else that I would never suspect?
Like yesterday, for instance.
Sophie was in the kitchen, trying desperately to get behind the air cleaner that pulls so much dust out of the air, I can't hardly believe it.
"Is your mouse back there, Sophie?" I asked.
I pulled the air cleaner out. No mouse.
But then, the next thing I knew, Sophie was up to her shoulder underneath the glove box behind the air cleaner, carefully feeling around.
"There can't be any mice under there, Sophie. How would you have gotten them under there with the air cleaner in the way?" I said.
But Sophie insisted the mice were under the glove box.
I picked up the wooden box -- and sure enough, 2 of her mice were under there.
My other two kittens from last year, Rocky and Juliette, are deeply disappointed when they come in the house now. They used to know exactly where to find the mice. I kept them in a ceramic goblet on the buffet. They would go up there, help themselves, play with the mice for a a few minutes, or an hour, or all afternoon, and then I would put them back for the next time Rocky and Juliette wanted their mice.
Sophie absconded with all of those. I have no idea where she put them.
I got smart this time, though. Instead of buying a small package of rabbit fur mice with only a couple in the package, I bought a jumbo pack of mice with a dozen -- 12 little bright blue and pink and turquoise and orange mice -- and all with bright-pink ears!
Sophie is so disappointed when she can't find her mice that I wanted to make sure I have extras. She is also a much nicer kitten to be around when she's got her mice to keep her occupied. (She wears herself out chasing them around the house.)
And not only that, but the only time I get to hear Sophie say anything is when she's got one of her mice. She 'chirps' at them and makes happy little sounds. Otherwise, she never meows or chirps. Which, from what I know about cats from my other cats, is highly unusual. The others are all quite vocal and talkative. But the only time I have heard Sophie meow is the day I found her in July when she was almost dead. She was screaming bloody murder then. And not a peep out of her since. Except when she's got one of her mice.
All I can say is -- thank goodness Sophie is happy with the rabbit fur mice. I would have to draw the line with real mice. Especially if she stashed them under the rug. Or batted them under the refrigerator and left them there. . .
LeAnn R. Ralph
Friday, December 02, 2005, 03:59
Ewwwwwwwww. . .
I took the dogs for a walk this morning around the neighbor's fields and woods. At one time the property was part of our farm. The neighbor knows this and does not mind if I walk there with my dogs.
The ground is frozen hard now, seeing as the temperature has been in the single digits overnight, and with a brisk north/northwest wind today, it was cold walking. I took my walking stick with me to help me navigate the frozen hummocks and gopher mounds that are hidden in knee-deep thatch. The dogs, Pixie and Charlie, enjoyed themselves immensely, running around and snooping here and there.
When we were almost back to our place, we passed the field of corn the neighbor has planted on CRP ground. Actually, it is now nothing more than a field of corn stalks. The deer and the raccoon and the neighbor's beef cows, when they have gotten out, have picked 99 percent of the corncobs, leaving nothing but stalks rattling in the wind.
As I walked next to the cornfield, suddenly, our Springer Spaniel burst out of the corn, carrying something in his mouth.
"Oh, goody," I said to Pixie, who was trotting along behind me, "Charlie found something."
This is a frequent thing with Charlie. He often finds a deer carcass or a turkey carcass -- once he found some frozen fish! -- and then he will carry part of it home to chew on it. I, of course, am then left with the task of taking it away from him.
I wasn't in any particular hurry today to get back to the yard to take away Charlie's toy. The ground was too frozen and slippery to hurry, plus, seeing as it was 15 degrees, I figured the "thing" would be frozen solid, and he wouldn't get much chewing done on it, anyway.
When I got back to the path leading past our garden, I could see Charlie, crouched on the driveway with the thing between his paws.
"Okay, Charlie," I said when I was 10 feet away. "You can't have that, you know."
Charlie looked up at me. . .
. . .and growled.
And snarled. And growled. And snarled. His teeth were pulled back from his lips, and his eyes were glowing with malice and hatred.
I didn't say a word to Charlie. Just headed across the lawn to the house, calling Pixie as I went. If this was going to be a fight, I didn't want Pixie in the middle of it. I went into the house, Pixie came with me, I gave her a piece of rawhide, and then I put two pieces of rawhide in my pocket.
When I was halfway down the hill to where Charlie was, I threw my arms up in the air -- with the walking stick still in one hand -- and ran toward him.
"Arrrrrrrrrghhhhhh!" I growled. "Arrrrrrrrrghhhhhh! How dare you! Growl at me! Who feeds you? Who takes you for walks? Arrrrrrrrrghhhhhh!"
By the time I got to the bottom of the hill, Charlie had sat up.
By the time I got to Charlie, he looked distinctly worried. There were lines across his forehead, and he was looking up at me from beneath his eyebrows.
"Arrrrrrrrrghhhhhh! Drop it, Charlie!" I said.
Charlie was just worried enough about my behavior to drop the thing that he had brought home.
"Okay, that's better," I said, reaching into my pocket. "Want some rawhide?"
Charlie looked at me.
Looked at the thing he had brought home.
Looked at me.
And chose the rawhide.
"Good boy!" I said.
I picked up the carcass Charlie had brought home -- and discovered it was what was left of a turkey.
As soon as I picked it up, I wanted to gag.
You wouldn't think that at 15 degrees, the thing would smell.
You would be wrong.
It reeked. It stunk so bad my stomach started to roll. My stomach hasn't been in that great a shape since I came down with this flu stuff, anyway.
I took the carcass into the basement, put it into an empty feed bag, went upstairs to get the can of carpet fresh powder, and liberally sprinkled the carcass before rolling the bag up and putting it in the garbage.
Then I went upstairs and got the disinfectant spray out of the bathroom and thoroughly sprayed my gloves.
Ick.
That was this morning, and even now, the thought of the smell of that thing makes my stomach do flip-flops.
When I told Randy about the incident this evening, he said Charlie was lucky it was me and not him that Charlie had growled at.
"I wouldn't have been so nice about it," Randy said.
I beg to differ.
I wasn't nice.
Not a bit.
I was devious.
What's that saying about old age and treachery winning out over youth and agility?
Or in this case -- old age and treachery winning out over teeth and fangs.
LeAnn R. Ralph