If you have time to whine and complain about something, then you have the time to do something about it. Anthony J. d'AngeloThe mouse is back. Or at least, some incarnation of the mouse has returned to haunt the kitchen cabinet under the sink, chewing its way into the cereal and cracker cupboard, leaving a trail of evidence which is both unnerving and disgusting. I don't like the mouse in the cupboard. I don't like mouse poop in my rice.
Ellie, the not so great white hunter, continues to be oblivious to the mouse's presence. A much more Draconion measure was needed. What we needed was a mighty mouse detector. Someone who without a stirring of his whiskers could dispatch our uninvited guest with a flick of his mighty paw. It was with visions of finding such a d'Artagnan of the feline persuasion that my youngest daughter and I set off for the local SPCA.
The place was teeming with people in search of four-legged companions, and willing participants eager to be adopted. Liseanne and I spent an hour or two strolling through the felines viewing us with pleading eyes, seeking release. There was a part of me that wanted to take all of them home -- they looked so sad -- and for some, their age was definitely a deterrent to their ever finding a home.
But I was committed to only coming home with ONE cat -- no dog, despite Liseanne's entreaties that we 'just go see the dogs too.'
I held firm on my resolve (whew!) and we found our knight in the form of a sleek two year old feline of the male persuasion. He stared at us from behind the glass of his enclosure, his green eyes pleading, his paw raised as if to stop us in our tracks. We asked the attendant if we could visit with him in one of the viewing rooms and, within minutes, he was curled up in my lap, purring, rubbing his head against my hand. Liseanne and I were ecstatic. When he'd tired of my lap, he leaped to hers, his purr a steady drone, his body an affection seeking missile that couldn't seem to get enough of our attention.
We can't bring him home yet. Shelter policy -- and my preference -- is that no cat is released without being neutered or spayed. He'll be able to take up residence, and his mouse patrol duties this Friday. In the meantime, we're trying to think of a name.
Marley, after the great Bob Marley, is one idea. Me. I'm thinking of Antonio Banderas. I've always wanted to say, "I've got Antonio in bed with me." C.C., however, is not so taken with the idea. Perhaps, 'Cat Stevens', might be more appropriate. I'm sure if he was a 'she', he would have suggested 'Meg Ryan'.
In the meanwhile, the mouse is living on borrowed time. Can't whine about his presence. But I sure can do something about ensuring that in the future, he is deterred from taking up residence by the aroma 'du chat' that will instill fear and loathing in his heart as soon as he attempts to crawl under the cupboard and wreck havoc on unsuspecting bags of rice and boxes of cereal.
As long as, of course, the yet to be named feline proves to be a mighty hunter.