I got an email from Charles saying hello to me and the kitties and I wrote back to say the kitties were sleeping and I was working, but then I decided I should take a break and I went in the other room and poured myself a glass of Perrier. Returning to my desk I saw Fitzroy on his back doing his bunny thing so I bent down to stroke his irresistible white fluff belly and spilled a little Perrier on his face. His shock was a great silent film moment, and I thought (cruelly) of Philip’s suggestion to use a water pistol to disperse the cats when they swarm me awake at 6 am.
The wet no-longer-bunny cat jumped up and ran from me, hiding by the window. I coaxed him out for patting and sweet-talk then we adjourned to the bathroom. I took care of business and he lay on the floor at my feet chewing on what looked like a dried mouse skeleton, complete with tail. I picked it up by the apparent tail, but it was not that distressing—rather an ancient object of vegetable origin. It resembled a flower but was as thick and stalky as an artichoke. Don’t ask me how it got there. I clean what fits into the allotted hours. Dishes, garbage, cat litter and laundry take precedence.
The bathroom is our agora. Mouchette came eeling in for a gossip and stayed to investigate the supposed mouse. She wants a mouse badly; she waits so patiently by the place under the radiator where they come out when they dare. I used to have more mice than God (he has angels to clean). Now I don’t have enough for my darling carnivores and must resort, albeit unwittingly, to that thing vegan restaurants used to do, tofu made to look like beef or chicken….
Instead of a poem, here’s a link to a video with a Scotsman reading Robert Burns’ poem “To a Mouse”
you won’t understand all the words, but it’s worth it anyway.