The fact that we’ve been living in a garage in the middle of cornfields for the last six months means that a.) I’m getting pretty used to the cat dropping life mice into our bed (sometimes two in one night), and b.) most of the stories I have about living in a garage in the country are about how my cat is dropping live mice into our bed (sometimes two in one night).
I could tell you variations on this story– such as all-time favorites mouse in a shoe, or decapitated mouse head stuck to MysteryMan’s foot— almost every week. They all end in either me trying to save the live mouse before the cat decapitates him, or me disposing of various mouse-parts when I’m too late.
But this weekend was a different story. As usual, the cat is outside doing cat-things– poking around in the wood pile looking for things to chase and the like– when I walk by and see him sitting in the middle of the yard looking down with a quizzical expression on his face. I think I see something moving on the ground by him, but when I call him, he comes running over to me, and since he knows most of the time I make him give up the mouse if he has one, his usual reaction when he catches something is to ignore me and take it straight into the house.
Out of curiousity I walk over to where the cat had been, and sure enough there’s a fat gray mouse sitting on the ground. Since he is, in fact, sitting back like an old geezer in a la-z-boy and not running for dear life, I assume the cat has injured him. Oddly, the cat did not come back to check out the mouse with me. He’s still hanging out twenty feet away, pondering the meaning of his remaining lives, apparently.
So I get a small bucket and my brick trowel thinking I’m going to scoop the injured mouse up and deposit him in the nearest wood pile so the cat won’t continue to torture him. I crouch down to coax the little fella into the bucket, and I’ll be god-dammed if that mouse didn’t jump a foot vertically in the air and snaps his teeth at me like he’s going to bite my face off. The cat caught a freaking attack-mouse.
I’m absolutely speechless when this happens, and that mouse actually takes a minute to give me the stink-eye before bounding off into the garden.
I look over at the cat like, “did that really just happen?” And he’s all, “I know, right?”
I’m not making this up. The Chuck Norris of the rodent kingdom is currently living in my strawberry patch.
The cat and I made a pact never to talk about this incident ever again.