Monday, August 12, 2013

No Mouser, Jack


Ceilidh the young Siamese-tabby spent the other morning diligently staring and chatting at the bottom of the file cabinet. We took out the drawers, found nothing of interest—other than the usual odd lost things—so, that's where it went! No errant lizards. Eventually she was rewarded for her vigilance: a pink-eared field mouse staggered out in circles from under the cabinet, cute as a cartoon cutout.

With a spectacular leap, Ceiildh caught the dazed mouse, but then the marmalade cat, Jack stole it out from under her in midair. Then he brought the mouse into the living room to share his new toy with us. 

I have been bringing him new catnip and feather toys in order to make friends with him—he's very shy. I am clearly a danger. Not a certified petter. But he's thawing—I'm the bringer of toys. It's taken several weekends to convince him I've no plans to eat him. So he shows his appreciation by playing with his new toys.

Jack and Ceilidh waiting for the feathers to make a run for it.

Jack sat on the carpet and put down his new mouse toy to check it out—but it up and ran away on him. The perplexed look on his face was priceless. I laughed so hard, he got upset and lost track of the mouse.

Then my cousin Sinead leapt off the couch screaming like a banshee: get the mouse! Get the mouse! Jack, don't let it get away! as it made for the stairs, then it headed for the gap under Dave's bedroom door. Not a good outcome. He'd be really pissed off if a mouse moved in. Luckily, the bathroom door was wide open. Sinead headed them off and chased them both into the bathroom. 

Then Sinead threw a growling, hissing Ceilidh into the bathroom for good measure, and blocked off the bottom of the bathroom door with a towel. The bathroom was now the designated cat dungeon of shame. The only way out was a coup de grâce. Like that was going to happen.

But the field mouse must've escaped down the drainpipe hole in the sink cabinet. No other exit was possible and clearly the cats didn't eat him. Two confused cats now think the bathroom is possessed, or Sinead is. Or maybe both. Sort of like vacuum cleaners. Very bad objects.

Ceiildh spends her time hunting for that lost mouse, and mewling forlornly all over the house while Jack, the bum, keeps berzerking up and down the extra tall deluxe cat tree—nearly capsizing it. Some sort of a killer victory dance. 

Jack's a bit of a blond on a good day—he's not very clear on the subject of cat-and-mouse. He fetches his toy squirrels and catnip spider and brings them to Dave ever so nicely, chases feather wands, drags the big blue feather duster upstairs to attack and thump it like a mighty lion, blue feathers everywhere like pieces of fallen sky—but clearly, he's no mouser.

Jack, clearly he's no mouser. Not jack.
Ceilidh is inconsolable in her grief—somehow she knows that she's missed out on that big primal first kill. Bugs don't count anymore. Better luck next time. Hopefully she'll know what to do. Jack, well, he's another story. However, our feet poking out of beds in the middle of the night are fair game. And they must be punished.

Ceiildh = Caylee, means a party in Irish.

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