This is based on a true story. Of course as a fiction writer and satirist, I tend to embellish the facts. So, what is actually true? The mouse, the cat, and me, of course. I did grab the cat with the mouse in its mouth, tried to shake it from the cat’s mouth, succeeded in doing so, then subsequently stepped on the mouse, killing it.
In retrospect, I wonder why I didn’t just step on the mouse in the first place and eliminate the other steps. Unfortunately, at the time, I had erroneously given the impression that my home was a safe house for mice, which resulted in an infestation several years later. Seeing many mice scampering about, in addition to both exhausting and confusing my cat, dramatically changed my viewpoint on the sanctity of mice life.
Disclaimer: This is not intended to defame pet mice or other pet rodents, or encourage the early demise of said pet mice or pet rodents. I do not support the use of rodent fur in the manufacturing of coats or other rodent fur products. I DO NOT HATE RODENTS! I just prefer not to live with them.
The Blitzcheese Offensive
One squeak of “Mouse!” from my son’s lips was enough to galvanize me. I abandoned the pile of dirty dishes teetering in the sink and scampered after the mouse. I followed it through the kitchen and into the living room, where the mouse slipped behind the drapes.
“Not smart,” I said, and grabbed a fistful of drape, wiggling it. The mouse took off again, this time zipping behind the couch. Apparently, what field mice lack in intelligence they make up for in speed.
If only I had noticed my cat conducting rodent reconnaissance from the piano, waiting for the right moment to begin a Blitzcheese offensive. Before I had time to react, my cat dove to the carpet and vanished behind the couch, appearing seconds later with the mouse in his mouth, its tail draped above his lip like a Fu Manchu mustache.
As the cat headed for the open porch door, I chased after him. I thought of myself as a hero of sorts, a mouse good-doer, and champion of the rodent way of life. With arms outstretched, I lunged at the cat, targeting the curve of his back. My first attempt proved successful. The mouse now dangled from the cat that dangled from my arms.
I wedged my boot between the door and frame then opened the door to the deck. Into the dark, I lurched with feline and rodent in tow, while yelling, “Drop it!” and shaking my cat like a maraca. If only I had seen the uneven floorboard that sent me stumbling in four-inch heels. I quickly righted myself by leaning against the wall beneath the glow of the kitchen window. I drew the cat closer to the light and saw the annoyed look on his face, as well as the lack of mouse in his mouth. I smiled.
The rodent has landed! I took a victory lap around the porch with the cat still in my arms. I remained elated until the next morning when I stepped onto the deck and saw a lifeless, furry thing lying on its back with its nose pointed up toward mouse heaven.
“How did this happen?” I said aloud, but in my heart, I knew the answer. That one misstep in the dark had likely flattened the mouse, though I could not confirm the actual time of death. I never heard it scream before my boot put an end its little mouse dreams.
“I hate irony!” I screamed. This time I murdered the mouse. My cat got off scot-free an unidentified accomplice, while the rodent police have an APB out on me.