Mice

While plundering around the kitchen before bed last night, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a mouse scurrying across the floor heading for the pantry. Such unwanted visitors are a part of country living. It would not surprise me to find possums in the well-shed or coons in the tractor barn. I am convinced there is a snake in one of the chicken houses. There have been no eggs to collect from that house in a week. Something is up and I suspect it is big, fat chicken snake. My point is that country living inspires one to be a bit more tolerant of other beings. But, I hate rats and, by extension, mice, too. WitchWoman hates spiders. The Old Goat hates crows. Tinker hates most everything. Everybody probably has something that fills them with revulsion. It was inevitable that filthy mice would invade the house. Several weeks ago, Lily, our trusted and reliable mouser, went missing. As a rule, I am not a cat man. But, I liked Lily. She had a job – kill rats – and she did it well. Then one morning, Lily was no more to be found. It is not unusual for farm animals to go missing. I mentioned that a few days ago, Afro the Duck went missing. Lily was adventuresome. She wandered all over this place. I was out bush hogging over by the dirt road once and there Lily was hot on the trail of some nasty vermin. When she did not show up for her usual saucer of milk one morning, I kind of knew she had fell victim to some of the indiscriminating jackals that roam this area. Without mousers like Lily, I am not a good rat-fighter. Traps are marginally effective. And, I am not crazy about laying poisons around the place. I suppose I could capture the mice and train them. We could go on tour, performing for packed-houses in every crossroads across the country. I’d be rich because I would pay the rats in cheese. But, that is not going to happen. I sure as hell don’t want to stake my financial future on a bunch of rodents. (Wait a minute, I had better revise that statement in light of the news that the president and leaders of Congress are negotiating the country’s financial future.) When I return from Joplin, I will visit the humane society and pick out the meanest mouser I can find. I want a cat that when you walk up to her cage, she snarls and sticks out her claws at you, daring you to adopt her. I want one with beady, cold-blooded eyes that will show no mercy to her prey. I want to bring her home, throw her in the house, lock the door, and listen for all hell to break loose. Shock and awe, that’s the ticket. Shock and awe.