I hear the thunk thunk of the dining room chairs clunking into one another and the cats scrabbling about making strange noises. I already know what I’m going to find when I walk out there, and, sure enough, running frantically back and forth between Matilda and Olivia, who keep repositioning themselves to prevent escape, is a tiny, gray, shivering mouse.
It’s probably the same mouse Mr. Shakes saw in our garage the other day. It’s starting to get cold, so they’re seeking refuge indoors—but woe is the poor wee creature who moves into the lair of two hunters who like nothing better than dropping a carcass at Mama’s feet with proud grins. It was time to put Operation Mouse Rescue into effect.
“Girls, step away from the mouse,” I said, as I opened the door to the garage. I reached for the nearest mouse-wrangling device on which I could put my hands, which happened to be a large manila envelope, then got in between the two cats, trying to scoop up the mouse, who seemed even more scared of the envelope and ran directly into Matilda’s chest. She looked disgusted at the mouse’s clear lack of strategy and wandered away. Olivia, however, thought this was a fun new game, and as I managed to start directing the mouse toward the open door, she was scurrying along in front, trying to direct the mouse away from the door.
After about five minutes of this, I finally managed to get the mouse to the safety of the garage. Olivia ran out after it, but the mouse immediately disappeared among stack of boxes—giant plastic boxes we got to dissuade just such invaders from chewing their way into making permanent homes in our stuff. Olivia looked around dejectedly. “Come on in,” I said. She walked back up the stairs and into the kitchen. I closed the door.
Matilda came over and the two of them looked at me with sad faces. “Maybe he’ll come in again,” I said, trying to sound optimistic, but hoping for all the world its stupid pea brain has enough room to hold a lesson: There are scary monsters beyond the big white door. Don’t go there.
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