A Mouse Tail, Part III
Despite a mouse in the house, another night passed peacefully. I heard my kiddo quietly maneuver his way around the house in getting ready for school. My morning has progressed in the same fashion for the past few weeks. I wait until the very last minute, throw something decent on, turn on the coffeemaker, and take the kid to the bus stop.
The important part to this is the coffee. I could not be more hopelessly devoted to all-things coffee. I will cut out any of the aforementioned steps in getting my morning routine except starting the process of making coffee. That means wearing Ricky Ricardo-style pajamas, just so long as that coffeemaker starts blinking green so it's ready for when I return. I'm less quiet than even my son, tromping through the house, but I stick to my ritual.
The bus stop is only a few blocks away, but I drive, I suppose out of habit. That means we sit in the car and chat, which is not terribly philosophical talk at 7 a.m. We discuss how each other slept, predict the weather, plan the afternoon after school, and then it's over. He's on the bus as I'm headed back home. The entire operation takes about 15 minutes.
Perhaps I would have thought it odd pre-accident that all five animals were crammed into the living room. Each pet typically does his or her own thing, there is no rhyme nor reason. But when I returned home, two dogs and three cats were situated in various places in that fairly tiny room. I took a few steps into the house, on my way to the coffeemaker again, when I looked down as something odd on the floor.
He could have been sleeping. The lack of trauma to his body was astounding. No blood or sign of puncture. Directly in my walkway was my mouse. My moxie mouse, who'd threatened to become part of the family, having lived almost three full days in this house and besting all who resided in it.
The kid had walked this path this morning, as had I, albeit, sleepily. When I looked up, no canine nor feline eye met mine. Every pet was present, yet not a one stirring.
The deed had been done with such expediency and placed where I'd certainly find it. As I picked up my mouse's corpse in a napkin, no one looked up to watch. I might as well have found a note underneath his body, reading, "You botched this job for the last time last night. No more. You are no mouser, human. Enjoy your coffee."
With the mouse disposed off, the pets dispersed, separately, yet with seeming solidarity. Snitches get stitches.
The important part to this is the coffee. I could not be more hopelessly devoted to all-things coffee. I will cut out any of the aforementioned steps in getting my morning routine except starting the process of making coffee. That means wearing Ricky Ricardo-style pajamas, just so long as that coffeemaker starts blinking green so it's ready for when I return. I'm less quiet than even my son, tromping through the house, but I stick to my ritual.
The bus stop is only a few blocks away, but I drive, I suppose out of habit. That means we sit in the car and chat, which is not terribly philosophical talk at 7 a.m. We discuss how each other slept, predict the weather, plan the afternoon after school, and then it's over. He's on the bus as I'm headed back home. The entire operation takes about 15 minutes.
Perhaps I would have thought it odd pre-accident that all five animals were crammed into the living room. Each pet typically does his or her own thing, there is no rhyme nor reason. But when I returned home, two dogs and three cats were situated in various places in that fairly tiny room. I took a few steps into the house, on my way to the coffeemaker again, when I looked down as something odd on the floor.
He could have been sleeping. The lack of trauma to his body was astounding. No blood or sign of puncture. Directly in my walkway was my mouse. My moxie mouse, who'd threatened to become part of the family, having lived almost three full days in this house and besting all who resided in it.
The kid had walked this path this morning, as had I, albeit, sleepily. When I looked up, no canine nor feline eye met mine. Every pet was present, yet not a one stirring.
The deed had been done with such expediency and placed where I'd certainly find it. As I picked up my mouse's corpse in a napkin, no one looked up to watch. I might as well have found a note underneath his body, reading, "You botched this job for the last time last night. No more. You are no mouser, human. Enjoy your coffee."
With the mouse disposed off, the pets dispersed, separately, yet with seeming solidarity. Snitches get stitches.
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