The Dystopian Times, 22. The Mouse in the House.

One would think that with three cats inside the house, a mouse would not dare to show its whiskers, much less chance living in the kitchen for any length of time. Well, one did have the chutzpah to do just that. And got away with it, too.

A couple of weeks ago, two of my cats were in the kitchen one night, and were looking fixedly at a box filled with miscellaneous papers and bags on a shelf under the microwave. I wondered why, turned off the television and stood quietly behind them, observing them. I was the last one up, and the house was extremely quiet.

A faint stir came from the area of the box. The cats looked on with even more interest, not moving a whisker. But the stir stopped, and, slowly, the cats lost interest, though they didn't go far. I thought maybe it was a grasshopper, or some other large insect behind there. Maybe even a moth caught in a web. 

After that night, the cats would sometimes sit and stare. At other times, they would try to get behind the refrigerator, further along the same wall, next to a cupboard that was between it and the shelves with the microwave and the box. I just chalked it up to their normal curiosity.

But, this afternoon, I dumped something in the trash, and at that very moment, a shadow ran from the trash can to the fridge. I was still. Was that for real? Did I just see a shadow? That was not a ghost, that was a mouse.

How did a mouse get in the kitchen? There are two ventilation holes in the kitchen, and sometimes mice in the wall can be heard at them. But the holes are covered with a metal grill and no way can a mouse even think about getting through. However, in the closet under the stairs in the hallway, there are two holes. The builders who reformed the house thirty years ago left one if we wanted to put a washing machine under there, so we could install the drainpipe. Another hole was put in later for the cable that connects the shut-off switch to the well motor. 

Many times, the cats have begged to be let in that closet. They would sit by the holes, waiting for an unwary rodent that would show the tip of a black nose. Very once in a while, there would be a scuffle, and the cat would emerge, triumphant, a mouse in its maw. Then, I would run around closing doors, so that it wouldn't escape anywhere. If the mouser had been Matrionuxca, short shrift would be made of playtime, and it would soon be snack time. 

But there hadn't been much traffic under the stairs in a long while. Nor have we been hearing the mice within the walls; the barn cats had made sure of evicting any remaining mice and rats. So, the door to the closet under the stairs hasn't been properly closed, and the mouse must have made its way to the kitchen, unchallenged. If Matrionuxca had still lived, it would definitely have been challenged. 

So, I went upstairs to get one of the cats, Romualdo, and my daughter moved the fridge. There it was, by the motor, tweaking its nose at her. Romualdo, however, didn't understand why we woke him out of a perfectly good nap to bring him to the kitchen, closing the door on top of it all. As my daughter, a person who does not kill insects, and definitely not a mouse, looked around for a way to get it out of there, it suddenly moved. It ran behind the cupboard to the box. Okay.

I took the box and set it on the floor. Slowly, I started to take out the miscellaneous bags and papers in it. As I removed each layer, I went more slowly. Finally, as I lifted a folded green shopping bag, two beady black eyes were looking at me. But they held my gaze only for a micro second, before their owner shuffled under something else. I called for Romualdo.

But my daughter set the lid on the box and picked it up. She decided to take it outside. So, we went outside into the garden, all the way to the end, by the fence. There, she set down the box, took the lid off, and shook it. A good-sized mouse fell out and ran like a cheetah to the fence and under it into the overgrown field next door. That was the end of that. 

And my cats are going to get a good talking-to about their dereliction of duty.

Life continues.