There was a mouse in the Christmas tree. A mouse on the shoulder of my coat hanging in the closet. A mouse under the stove. A mouse in the bedroom’s radiator. A mouse eating barley in the pantry. A mouse leaping down the dark basement stairs. So many captured mice hauled away from the house in cardboard boxes (or perhaps the same mouse, relocated over and over without success). I scolded the cats for their short-comings.
Today, I returned from almost a week away, and when I shut the front door behind me, I saw a small figure between the rug and the wall. A little, still triangle. “Rich,” I yelled, “One of the cats knows how to kill a mouse.” I made him pick it up, afraid that it would be only mostly dead, which would mean having to do something. The wee body was brittle, so then I wondered how long Rich had walked past it, how many days it might have been there. We’ll never know.
I wanted the mouse problem cured. That’s what I said, what I told the cats.
It was a cute little fellow.