War
Winter means war around here. This is a one hundred year old house. That means many ways in and many ways out for little critters whoenjoy the warm comfort of a basement drop ceiling.
There are two worthless cats in this house. I'm not sure what they would do if they were to somehow catch a mouse. They eat cat food; they don't even like people food so I'm not sure why I expect them to be mousers.
Our last cat, Stuart, was a stone-cold killer. Once he became an outdoor cat, he would catch rodents regularly, wait for an audience and eat the entire animal in less than a minute, depositing what I am certain was the brain on the driveway in an act of what appeared to be pure theater. I am convinced he wanted us to know that he had the control to pick a single organ and leave it behind as a marker of his skill.
The current brother and sister duo of Calvin and Gracie are spectators. They spend hours in the basement looking. They crouch by the furnace and look. They make a racket and move from room to room but I'm unimpressed. I've yet to find any evidence of true hunting skills. Calvin has an excuse; a kittenhood head injury left him slightly touched. He is nice enough but his reactions are probably too slow for use as a mouser. Gracie has no excuse. She is quick and alert and a slacker when it comes to her duties.
This house is left with me as its primary rodent defense minister. Tonight poor Libby spotted a mouse adroitly moving along a water pipe near the ceiling in our laundry room. Her frantic scream was my reminder that cat vigilance was insufficient in this war. But I love a good battle so after Libby calmed down and would return to the laundry room and show me the invader's path, I retrieved a fresh supply of traps, pulled out the peanut butter and not withstanding a few false snaps am patiently awaiting the wonderfully satisfying sound of sprung metal on rodent.
Winter is here.
Comments