The recent band of weather that crossed through the Midwest gave us 6 to 7.5 inches of snow, depending on the measurement location in our yard. M has been able to get to work, but my car will only drive farther than two feet in this in reverse. (I suspect it has something to do with how low the nose of my car sits.) I had the foresight to try to test how well my car would drive about an hour before I was supposed to be at the chiropractor. I backed my car out of the garage and did quite well until I tried to move forward in the snow--I made it about 6 inches and could go no further. I basically "rocked" my car all the way back into the garage, driving backward a foot or so, then driving forward in low for a few inches, then reverse, then forward, ad nauseum. I attempted to use our snow shovel to clear the snow--at least down to just a couple of inches--in our driveway and succeeded (even with M's help after he got home) in clearing out the area directly in front of my side of the garage and about 6 feet further. Only 40 more feet to go!
Then M cleared a path to the mailbox and came back to tell me that unless some miraculous thaw happened overnight, I wouldn't be going anywhere again today...the snowplows that had so graciously clear our highway had, of course, piled snow 2 to 3 times higher up at the end of our driveway. I resigned myself to my fate and wandered back into the house with M because my thighs by this time could distinguish no feeling from others except cold, even with my thermal underwear on under my jeans. (My feet were quite toasty, however, in my wool-blend socks and work boots--I really need to remember the brand of these socks and sing their praises to everyone I know. The boots, by the way, are Wolverine and cost me $30 about 7 years ago at Meijer.) After all, I discovered a couple of weeks ago that when I have freelancing work, most of the projects end up paying better than my "real" job anyway, without the time and gas costs of a commute.
So what does all of this have to do with mice or gardening, the proclaimed reason for my blog, you ask? Well, smartass, as I was shoveling snow in the drive yesterday, I apparently hit a mouse with the snow shovel. I have no idea if the mouse had been caught unexpectedly in the falling snow , had been burrowing in the snow, or had been up to some devious task, but there it had been, ostensibly minding its own business, when, CRUNCH! (or maybe THWACK!) it got bowled over by a snow shovel. I didn't even realize I had the creature in my clutches until I removed the shovel from the pile of snow I had built (using the shovel plow-style, because the snow had to be moved too far for me to "shovel" it practically).
There, when some snow toppled into the void left by the shovel being removed, the mouse also toppled. It was wriggling about, whether in cold, pain, or both, I don't know. Then, more snow fell down from the top of the pile, and the mouse was hidden from me. I didn't even think to search it out to do it in. Instead, as I "plowed" another shovelful of snow into the pile, further covering the area where the mouse had twitched, I said a quick prayer that it would die a quick, relatively painless death or somehow find its way out to warmth and comfort. I figured the latter was unlikely or that, if it were at all likely, the warmth and comfort would be found only after much pain and struggle, so I really did hope--for the mouse's sake--that Death (the one that comes to collect mice and other rodents, not the one that collects humans [see the movie Hogfather for a pictorial representation]) would appear quickly for it, riding on its sleigh or snowmobile, or whatever Death requires to get along, to help this creature find its way to the River Styx. (Which makes me wonder...does the River Styx serve a purpose for animals, too, or is it solely for human use? Did the Romans have kids ask that question, like little Christian kids ask about dogs in Heaven?)
So anyway, here I am, sitting on my couch, blogging and freelancing, covered in a couple of blankets and one cat for warmth, seriously debating whether showering for warmth will be worth it once the water starts to evaporate, while M is at work, probably nice and toasty...
By the way, in my freelancing this morning, I came upon a phrase (plus alpha) I had never heard or seen before. I asked a few of my friends if they had heard it, and the response (3 of 4--a 75% response rate) was a unanimous "no." I Googled the term and was able to find one description. Reading the description ("It is a textbook example of English being imported into Japanese as gairaigo, and subsequently losing all of its meaning to an English speaker.") made me giggle a bit, thinking of Engrish and the hopeless problems ever present in translating English to Japanese and Japanese to English. Ever wanting to encourage learning and the expansion of minds, then, I decided to share here (click the title of this entry to go to the description).
Stringham high: One more mouse is down. Inadvertently, sure, but we'll take luck over talent any day.
Stringham low: Just a few inches of snow can trap me at hour house (maybe not too much of a low....).
Stringham super-high: Snow is pretty, and with this much of it in this big a yard, you can make snow cream!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Cats (Sort of) Have a Kill
Well, they had some help from Mike, but the kitties finally "made a kill" this morning. They started chasing the mouse around our bedroom around 3 AM. At some point, I locked them out of the bedroom for jumping all over me in the bed, but I let them in again around 5, and when I started getting ready around 5:30, they were hunting again. Actually, they were falling over each other to get this mouse cornered. Under the dresser, under the standing mirror, under my nightstand, around the trunk, into the bathroom (yes, the mouse actually ran directly at my feet) where I was.
Maury had it cornered in the bathroom, behind the litter box, but then he lost it. So I pulled out the litter box, the box of used litter, the container of fresh litter. Still, he couldn't see it. So I kept both eyes on the mouse and called to Maury as he wandered in and out of the bathroom and bedroom, looking for the thing that was right in front of me.
Finally, he saw it, and chased it into the bedroom, behind my nightstand, under the bed, to Mike's closet, back under the bed, and back by the hamper. At some point in this chase, Mike got involved, trying to help. (Well, it was better than on Christmas morning, when our help just ended up in a mouse getting away...but let's face it...who wants to start Christmas with a death in the house, even if it is death of a mouse?) George is still sitting by my dresser, looking at the trunk, like he's trying to say, "Guys, I have it! I know it's here! Come back and help!" (The mouse is still by the hamper, I'd like to remind you.) Now I'm getting dressed, trying to watch this and dress at the same time so I can jump out of the way if the mouse starts diving at my now-bare feet. (Mike is exclaiming that the cats have the mouse worn out. Of course, I say, it ran right TOWARD me to get away from the cats. Not a wise move, nor one that a field mouse at the height of its energy and thinking abilities would make.)
Maury can't see the mouse, apparently, and is wondering off, looking for it yet again, but Mike moves the hamper, and George moves faster than Mike has ever seen him move (other than running to you when he thinks he's getting soft food, tuna, or dead cooked pig). So now George is monopolizing the chase, and how! This cat knows how to catch. He's chasing it just as fast as Maury was earlier, but under a suitcase and then (after I moved the suitcase), under my fuzzy red slippers and into a pile of belts or straps of some sort that has fallen off of one of the unpacked boxes, and back between my slippers. (Seriously, I've got to start hanging my shoes up, as much as the mice like to hide under and around them.)
Mike pounds on the slipper really hard and then lifts it (the mouse is a little dazed, but still alive). George picks it up, holding it high in his mouth, and PRANCES out of the bedroom and down the hall. But he drops it, and it runs back down the hall toward the bedroom. It stops right in front of Maury and rolls over on its side, popping its feet up in the air, playing dead. (Very smart mouse, because now the cats just stare at it, like, "Hey! The toy stopped working!" I tell Mike to finish the mouse off, because it has now started to twitch, and it's most likely in some pain, having gone through the earlier crushing. So he does, and then he lets it lie there for a bit while he goes to get some toilet paper to pick it up with.
"Isn't it ironic that the cat with no claws is the better hunter?" Mike asks. But George is older and has more experience and has always shown more of the down-and-dirty potential in his playing with toys. Maury just likes to chase things and often loses interest after catching them, but George loves beating the crap out of them and then picking them up and throwing them to a new place so he can pick them up and beat the crap out of them again.
The cats sit in the hall, staring at the mouse's prone figure, and then, next thing we know, George has eased up and sniffed the mouse. Then he picks it up and runs into the living room with it, Maury following closely. Then follows the ritual of George holding his "kill" and standing very still to warn Maury off. (I have pictures of this intricate dance.) And then, realizing that Maury is not going to steal credit for his kill, George drops the mouse. And then proceeds to pick it up and fling it through the air like he does his stuffed "puppy-mouse," apparently missing the point completely that the mouse is supposed to be ALIVE when he does all of this. We watch this for a bit, as George drops and throws the mouse a few more times. We giggle a little, more at George's delight than at the treatment of the mouse's body. Finally, he flings it, and it lands on the storage chest coffee table. Now the cats look everywhere for it but can't see it. So they stare at the storage chest. Mike is giggling maniacally and giving the mice catnip as a reward. They keep eating their nip and then stopping to stare at the storage chest, then going back to their nip, and so on. So I tell Mike to hurry up and get rid of the mouse's body before the cats figure out where it is. We know that George likes to devour his toy mice tail-first, and I really don't want to find that puked up somewhere when I get home tonight. And nothing like finding mouse intestines strewn about the house, Mike points out.
So the kitties were rewarded with a lot of catnip, and although they didn't technically make the kill, they got much further this time than ever before. Who knows, by spring, maybe they will have made a kill all on their own.
Then, next fall, we'll have to start the learning curve all over again...
Maury had it cornered in the bathroom, behind the litter box, but then he lost it. So I pulled out the litter box, the box of used litter, the container of fresh litter. Still, he couldn't see it. So I kept both eyes on the mouse and called to Maury as he wandered in and out of the bathroom and bedroom, looking for the thing that was right in front of me.
Finally, he saw it, and chased it into the bedroom, behind my nightstand, under the bed, to Mike's closet, back under the bed, and back by the hamper. At some point in this chase, Mike got involved, trying to help. (Well, it was better than on Christmas morning, when our help just ended up in a mouse getting away...but let's face it...who wants to start Christmas with a death in the house, even if it is death of a mouse?) George is still sitting by my dresser, looking at the trunk, like he's trying to say, "Guys, I have it! I know it's here! Come back and help!" (The mouse is still by the hamper, I'd like to remind you.) Now I'm getting dressed, trying to watch this and dress at the same time so I can jump out of the way if the mouse starts diving at my now-bare feet. (Mike is exclaiming that the cats have the mouse worn out. Of course, I say, it ran right TOWARD me to get away from the cats. Not a wise move, nor one that a field mouse at the height of its energy and thinking abilities would make.)
Maury can't see the mouse, apparently, and is wondering off, looking for it yet again, but Mike moves the hamper, and George moves faster than Mike has ever seen him move (other than running to you when he thinks he's getting soft food, tuna, or dead cooked pig). So now George is monopolizing the chase, and how! This cat knows how to catch. He's chasing it just as fast as Maury was earlier, but under a suitcase and then (after I moved the suitcase), under my fuzzy red slippers and into a pile of belts or straps of some sort that has fallen off of one of the unpacked boxes, and back between my slippers. (Seriously, I've got to start hanging my shoes up, as much as the mice like to hide under and around them.)
Mike pounds on the slipper really hard and then lifts it (the mouse is a little dazed, but still alive). George picks it up, holding it high in his mouth, and PRANCES out of the bedroom and down the hall. But he drops it, and it runs back down the hall toward the bedroom. It stops right in front of Maury and rolls over on its side, popping its feet up in the air, playing dead. (Very smart mouse, because now the cats just stare at it, like, "Hey! The toy stopped working!" I tell Mike to finish the mouse off, because it has now started to twitch, and it's most likely in some pain, having gone through the earlier crushing. So he does, and then he lets it lie there for a bit while he goes to get some toilet paper to pick it up with.
"Isn't it ironic that the cat with no claws is the better hunter?" Mike asks. But George is older and has more experience and has always shown more of the down-and-dirty potential in his playing with toys. Maury just likes to chase things and often loses interest after catching them, but George loves beating the crap out of them and then picking them up and throwing them to a new place so he can pick them up and beat the crap out of them again.
The cats sit in the hall, staring at the mouse's prone figure, and then, next thing we know, George has eased up and sniffed the mouse. Then he picks it up and runs into the living room with it, Maury following closely. Then follows the ritual of George holding his "kill" and standing very still to warn Maury off. (I have pictures of this intricate dance.) And then, realizing that Maury is not going to steal credit for his kill, George drops the mouse. And then proceeds to pick it up and fling it through the air like he does his stuffed "puppy-mouse," apparently missing the point completely that the mouse is supposed to be ALIVE when he does all of this. We watch this for a bit, as George drops and throws the mouse a few more times. We giggle a little, more at George's delight than at the treatment of the mouse's body. Finally, he flings it, and it lands on the storage chest coffee table. Now the cats look everywhere for it but can't see it. So they stare at the storage chest. Mike is giggling maniacally and giving the mice catnip as a reward. They keep eating their nip and then stopping to stare at the storage chest, then going back to their nip, and so on. So I tell Mike to hurry up and get rid of the mouse's body before the cats figure out where it is. We know that George likes to devour his toy mice tail-first, and I really don't want to find that puked up somewhere when I get home tonight. And nothing like finding mouse intestines strewn about the house, Mike points out.
So the kitties were rewarded with a lot of catnip, and although they didn't technically make the kill, they got much further this time than ever before. Who knows, by spring, maybe they will have made a kill all on their own.
Then, next fall, we'll have to start the learning curve all over again...
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Wish List
I couldn't force myself to be productive, per se, after we got back from our errands today, so I started in on performing MY bit of expertise. M's decided that planning the garden is his thing, so he's learning about what to plant where, how to plant certain plants next to each other, how to prevent pests, etc. So what was my expertise to be? Planning time, of course. With the planner I purchased two weeks ago specially for the occasion, I lay on the floor and grabbed one of our books from Christmas.
Three hours later, not a thing was pencilled in to our planner, and I had read only one chapter of that book, but I've added to our shopping list, added to the list of things we need for our emergency kit, and created a wish list. We decided last spring that our anniversary, because of its timing, is a perfect way to help the earth by planting something. No fancy dinners, no flowers, no cards...just me, M, a trowel or shovel, a bucket of water, and some gardening gloves.
And with all of this focus on building a home that can sustain us, we've decided that we really would prefer that people get us useful things. Not that we don't want fun things, but we're finding more and more that the useful things ARE the fun things. So we've created a little wish list, sort of like a bridal or baby registry. But this is our life registry. The perfect gifts for any occasion, in no particular order:
Three hours later, not a thing was pencilled in to our planner, and I had read only one chapter of that book, but I've added to our shopping list, added to the list of things we need for our emergency kit, and created a wish list. We decided last spring that our anniversary, because of its timing, is a perfect way to help the earth by planting something. No fancy dinners, no flowers, no cards...just me, M, a trowel or shovel, a bucket of water, and some gardening gloves.
And with all of this focus on building a home that can sustain us, we've decided that we really would prefer that people get us useful things. Not that we don't want fun things, but we're finding more and more that the useful things ARE the fun things. So we've created a little wish list, sort of like a bridal or baby registry. But this is our life registry. The perfect gifts for any occasion, in no particular order:
Books
How to Live on Almost Nothing and Have Plenty by Janet Chadwick
Managing Your Personal Food Supply: How to Eat Better for Less by Taking an Active Role in Producing, Processing, and Preparing Your Food, edited by Ray Wolf
Practical Skills: A Revival of Forgotten Crafts, Techniques, and Traditions by Gene Logsdon
The Self-Sufficient Gardener: A Complete Guide to Growing and Preserving All Your Own Food by John Seymour
Storey’s Basic Country Skills: A Practical Guide to Self-Reliance edited by Deborah Burns
When Technology Fails: A Manual of Self-Reliance & Planetary Survival by Mathew Stein
Primitive Wilderness Living & Survival Skills, by John and Geri McPherson
Diaper Changes: The Complete Diapering Book and Resource Guide by Theresa Rodriguez Farrisi
Heart & Hands: A Midwife’s Guide to Pregnancy and Birth by Elizabeth Davis
Emergency Childbirth Handbook by Barbara Anderson and Pamela Shapiro
Childbirth Without Fear
Spiritual Midwifery by Ina May Gaskin
Small-Scale Food Processing by Emma Judge and others
How to Make $100,000 from a 25-Acre Farm by Dr. Booker T. Whatley
The Legal Guide for Direct Farm Marketing by Neil Hamilton
How to Direct Market Farm Products on the Internet
Where There Is No Doctor: A Village Health Care Handbook by David Werner, Carol Thurman, and Jane Maxwell
Medicine for Mountaineering & Other Wilderness Activities by James A. Wilderson, M.D., editor
Ditch Medicine: Advanced Field Procedures for Emergencies by Hugh L. Coffee
Deck of Edible Plants
Deck of Poisonous Plants
Tools
Battery- or crank-powered weather radio
Supplies
Emergency First-Aid Kit
Knots “cheat sheet”—an 8 ½ x 11 laminated card with instructions for several key knots on each side
Old clothes or blankets that can be recycled into quilts or patches
“Umbrella” style clothes dryer or posts for clothesline
Canning supplies—especially jars (new or used) and lids, pots, cooking racks, cooling racks
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Crazy Survivalists, Hippies, or Just Another Day?
We went grocery shopping today. I use the term "grocery" loosely, as we got few of those. But we must have looked interesting pushing our shopping cart through the store in the middle of January. We had 2 7.5-gallon water bins; a "weather" (waterproof) flashlight that operates on AA, AAA, or C batteries; a high-powered lantern; rechargeable D batteries; half-pint canning jars (on clearance); canning spices (also on clearance); lime (for the bodies or something innocent?); antifreeze; a Mr. Potato Head; a funnel; an ovulation test; cucumbers; bell peppers; and a few other groceries; wool socks. (I suppose none of these things seem all that strange if you know the weather we've had recently. I mean, M's antifreeze actually FROZE in his car the other day.) The only thing that would have made it better would have been if we had actually got the high-powered binoculars, saw, bowie knife, and shotgun shells that we also looked at. 'Course, because we're in a relatively rural area, maybe no one would have bat an eyelash.
And now, looking at that list, it doesn't seem so strange.
And now, looking at that list, it doesn't seem so strange.
Love Is a Many-Splintered Thing
After going to a roller-derby bout last weekend, M and I fell in love. (Not with each other this time, but with women's roller derby.) What better way to express that love than to share Valentine's Day with the team at the match they have called Kick Start My Heart? Yes, that's right, our romantic date will consist of watching girls on rollerskates grab, hit, trip, grope, and propel each other while hurling themselves around an oval track. Romance is in the air...
Arctic Chill and Working Mice
Apparently, we have mice that work outside the home. After the rash of mouse victims last weekend, despite 3 new electrocuting traps (each of which can take out 3 mice without being reset), no victims. Not, that is, until Friday evening. After the snow we got Wednesday, M saw tracks leading to and from the garage, the garden, the driveway, etc. So it's my theory that our mice apparently work hard during the week and come in to party in our kitchen on the weekends...this little guy was the scout to find all the happenin' places.
When I got home Friday, I saw that a glue trap on the counter (not one of the 2 or 3 quick-kill traps, oh no, we have ballsy mice) had captured one. I knew it was only a matter of time before it worked itself free, and I didn't want it to hurt itself. (I mean, if we're going to kill them for just doing what they do and what they are, we should just kill them quickly.) I called M to see if he would be home soon to "take care" of it or if I was going to have to finally take my first mousey life. (No answer. M must be on his way home.) I did all sorts of chores to avoid having to do the deed, killing time until M got home, all the while checking on the mouse to make sure it didn't get free. I contemplated putting the glue trap outside to give the mouse a chance--freeze to death or freeze itself. Some choice. What about putting the board on the floor and letting it take its chances--sure, another fine choice--free itself to be toyed with by the cats or be toyed with by the cats in the trap.
The more it struggled, the more I kvetched. My heart raced, the adrenaline pumped. I was going to do it! But then, oh, I had to get something out of the freezer. Then I wondered how I could kill it. It's not like a rabbit or a deer that I would kill to eat. This would just be slaughter.
It struggled to free itself. I sang to it to calm it. After all, it wouldn't do for it to free itself before M could eliminate it or before I grew a pair.
It was nearly free. But I had to pee.
Again, the distraction. But coming back from the bathroom, I see M walk past the front door to get the mail. Finally, my savior!
(And a good thing, too. The mouse had freed its front paws and was pulling his back paws free.) And then he was no more. Still, I reason, it's better than a tussle with the cats any day, right?
Stringham high: Even in -20 degree temps, our bedroom hovers around 55-60 degrees.
Stringham low: Our pipe draining the sump pump froze up, making the check valve come loose and spray water back in to our basement. (No damage, no flooding. M just turned things off to wait for warmer weather.)
Stringham super-high: Our furnace (which we're always surprised makes it through 20-degree weather) has performed admirably through our -2 degree (high) and -20 degree (low) weather. No room has gotten colder than 55 degrees!!!
Bonus super-high: We got a plant-and-seed catalog chock FULL of fruit trees and windbreak plants and vegetables and flowers and decorative grasses today. I was cheering and "ooh"ing and "aa"ing on ever page, like a kid in a candy store. I can't wait to start planting and cultivating again! (Yes, it's the little things that keep us going around here.)
When I got home Friday, I saw that a glue trap on the counter (not one of the 2 or 3 quick-kill traps, oh no, we have ballsy mice) had captured one. I knew it was only a matter of time before it worked itself free, and I didn't want it to hurt itself. (I mean, if we're going to kill them for just doing what they do and what they are, we should just kill them quickly.) I called M to see if he would be home soon to "take care" of it or if I was going to have to finally take my first mousey life. (No answer. M must be on his way home.) I did all sorts of chores to avoid having to do the deed, killing time until M got home, all the while checking on the mouse to make sure it didn't get free. I contemplated putting the glue trap outside to give the mouse a chance--freeze to death or freeze itself. Some choice. What about putting the board on the floor and letting it take its chances--sure, another fine choice--free itself to be toyed with by the cats or be toyed with by the cats in the trap.
The more it struggled, the more I kvetched. My heart raced, the adrenaline pumped. I was going to do it! But then, oh, I had to get something out of the freezer. Then I wondered how I could kill it. It's not like a rabbit or a deer that I would kill to eat. This would just be slaughter.
It struggled to free itself. I sang to it to calm it. After all, it wouldn't do for it to free itself before M could eliminate it or before I grew a pair.
It was nearly free. But I had to pee.
Again, the distraction. But coming back from the bathroom, I see M walk past the front door to get the mail. Finally, my savior!
(And a good thing, too. The mouse had freed its front paws and was pulling his back paws free.) And then he was no more. Still, I reason, it's better than a tussle with the cats any day, right?
Stringham high: Even in -20 degree temps, our bedroom hovers around 55-60 degrees.
Stringham low: Our pipe draining the sump pump froze up, making the check valve come loose and spray water back in to our basement. (No damage, no flooding. M just turned things off to wait for warmer weather.)
Stringham super-high: Our furnace (which we're always surprised makes it through 20-degree weather) has performed admirably through our -2 degree (high) and -20 degree (low) weather. No room has gotten colder than 55 degrees!!!
Bonus super-high: We got a plant-and-seed catalog chock FULL of fruit trees and windbreak plants and vegetables and flowers and decorative grasses today. I was cheering and "ooh"ing and "aa"ing on ever page, like a kid in a candy store. I can't wait to start planting and cultivating again! (Yes, it's the little things that keep us going around here.)
Monday, January 12, 2009
Hell Freezes Over?
To borrow a line from my husband, "zomg, a blog! I haz eevuhl powers!"
For several years, I've told people that I would never blog because I wasn't interested in telling others about my life. Or I didn't have the time to write a blog. And certainly, no one would want to read my blog even if I wrote one.
But since we bought our house, I've written several interesting emails and been encouraged to keep them coming. Maybe somewhere along the line, this will lead to a book, but for now, it's the easiest way for me to document our success (or failure) with the garden, our failure (or maybe success) with canning the bounty of our harvest, our wildlife encounters, and--best of all for you lucky fans out there--our ongoing war with the mice.
In the next couple of weeks, I'll get posted here what I've written about regarding our experiences in going back to the land--but in a totally respectable, non-hippy, non-New Agey (okay, maybe a LITTLE New-Agey) way. We'll start there and see where that takes us.
But for now, a brief update:
For several years, I've told people that I would never blog because I wasn't interested in telling others about my life. Or I didn't have the time to write a blog. And certainly, no one would want to read my blog even if I wrote one.
But since we bought our house, I've written several interesting emails and been encouraged to keep them coming. Maybe somewhere along the line, this will lead to a book, but for now, it's the easiest way for me to document our success (or failure) with the garden, our failure (or maybe success) with canning the bounty of our harvest, our wildlife encounters, and--best of all for you lucky fans out there--our ongoing war with the mice.
In the next couple of weeks, I'll get posted here what I've written about regarding our experiences in going back to the land--but in a totally respectable, non-hippy, non-New Agey (okay, maybe a LITTLE New-Agey) way. We'll start there and see where that takes us.
But for now, a brief update:
- Stringham high: The mouse war had 4 casualties (M says 7); M is reemployed after a brief stint with unemployment; I'm watching M "dance" to a Wii game about crazy rabbits, and boy, is he goofy!
- Stringham low: Once again, a baby Stringham has decided to pass on our invitation to hang out with me for about 9 months.
- Stringham super-high: We received for Christmas (1) many, many books on gardening, natural pest control, and everything we could ever want to know about living like pioneers; (2) a large freezer (a few months early, but it was for Christmas); (3) a huge tool box; and (4) a FoodSaver. I don't remember the last time I was so excited on Christmas day. I was giddy. (Yeah, I'm a complete weirdo.)
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Cats (Sort of) Have a Kill
Well, they had some help from Mike, but the kitties finally "made a kill" this morning. They started chasing the mouse around our bedroom around 3 AM. At some point, I locked them out of the bedroom for jumping all over me in the bed, but I let them in again around 5, and when I started getting ready around 5:30, they were hunting again. Actually, they were falling over each other to get this mouse cornered. Under the dresser, under the standing mirror, under my nightstand, around the trunk, into the bathroom (yes, the mouse actually ran directly at my feet) where I was.
Maury had it cornered in the bathroom, behind the litter box, but then he lost it. So I pulled out the litter box, the box of used litter, the container of fresh litter. Still, he couldn't see it. So I kept both eyes on the mouse and called to Maury as he wandered in and out of the bathroom and bedroom, looking for the thing that was right in front of me.
Finally, he saw it, and chased it into the bedroom, behind my nightstand, under the bed, to Mike's closet, back under the bed, and back by the hamper. At some point in this chase, Mike got involved, trying to help. (Well, it was better than on Christmas morning, when our help just ended up in a mouse getting away...but let's face it...who wants to start Christmas with a death in the house, even if it is death of a mouse?) George is still sitting by my dresser, looking at the trunk, like he's trying to say, "Guys, I have it! I know it's here! Come back and help!" (The mouse is still by the hamper, I'd like to remind you.) Now I'm getting dressed, trying to watch this and dress at the same time so I can jump out of the way if the mouse starts diving at my now-bare feet. (Mike is exclaiming that the cats have the mouse worn out. Of course, I say, it ran right TOWARD me to get away from the cats. Not a wise move, nor one that a field mouse at the height of its energy and thinking abilities would make.)
Maury can't see the mouse, apparently, and is wondering off, looking for it yet again, but Mike moves the hamper, and George moves faster than Mike has ever seen him move (other than running to you when he thinks he's getting soft food, tuna, or dead cooked pig). So now George is monopolizing the chase, and how! This cat knows how to catch. He's chasing it just as fast as Maury was earlier, but under a suitcase and then (after I moved the suitcase), under my fuzzy red slippers and into a pile of belts or straps of some sort that has fallen off of one of the unpacked boxes, and back between my slippers. (Seriously, I've got to start hanging my shoes up, as much as the mice like to hide under and around them.)
Mike pounds on the slipper really hard and then lifts it (the mouse is a little dazed, but still alive). George picks it up, holding it high in his mouth, and PRANCES out of the bedroom and down the hall. But he drops it, and it runs back down the hall toward the bedroom. It stops right in front of Maury and rolls over on its side, popping its feet up in the air, playing dead. (Very smart mouse, because now the cats just stare at it, like, "Hey! The toy stopped working!" I tell Mike to finish the mouse off, because it has now started to twitch, and it's most likely in some pain, having gone through the earlier crushing. So he does, and then he lets it lie there for a bit while he goes to get some toilet paper to pick it up with.
"Isn't it ironic that the cat with no claws is the better hunter?" Mike asks. But George is older and has more experience and has always shown more of the down-and-dirty potential in his playing with toys. Maury just likes to chase things and often loses interest after catching them, but George loves beating the crap out of them and then picking them up and throwing them to a new place so he can pick them up and beat the crap out of them again.
The cats sit in the hall, staring at the mouse's prone figure, and then, next thing we know, George has eased up and sniffed the mouse. Then he picks it up and runs into the living room with it, Maury following closely. Then follows the ritual of George holding his "kill" and standing very still to warn Maury off. (I have pictures of this intricate dance.) And then, realizing that Maury is not going to steal credit for his kill, George drops the mouse. And then proceeds to pick it up and fling it through the air like he does his stuffed "puppy-mouse," apparently missing the point completely that the mouse is supposed to be ALIVE when he does all of this. We watch this for a bit, as George drops and throws the mouse a few more times. We giggle a little, more at George's delight than at the treatment of the mouse's body. Finally, he flings it, and it lands on the storage chest coffee table. Now the cats look everywhere for it but can't see it. So they stare at the storage chest. Mike is giggling maniacally and giving the mice catnip as a reward. They keep eating their nip and then stopping to stare at the storage chest, then going back to their nip, and so on. So I tell Mike to hurry up and get rid of the mouse's body before the cats figure out where it is. We know that George likes to devour his toy mice tail-first, and I really don't want to find that puked up somewhere when I get home tonight. And nothing like finding mouse intestines strewn about the house, Mike points out.
So the kitties were rewarded with a lot of catnip, and although they didn't technically make the kill, they got much further this time than ever before. Who knows, by spring, maybe they will have made a kill all on their own.
Then, next fall, we'll have to start the learning curve all over again...
Maury had it cornered in the bathroom, behind the litter box, but then he lost it. So I pulled out the litter box, the box of used litter, the container of fresh litter. Still, he couldn't see it. So I kept both eyes on the mouse and called to Maury as he wandered in and out of the bathroom and bedroom, looking for the thing that was right in front of me.
Finally, he saw it, and chased it into the bedroom, behind my nightstand, under the bed, to Mike's closet, back under the bed, and back by the hamper. At some point in this chase, Mike got involved, trying to help. (Well, it was better than on Christmas morning, when our help just ended up in a mouse getting away...but let's face it...who wants to start Christmas with a death in the house, even if it is death of a mouse?) George is still sitting by my dresser, looking at the trunk, like he's trying to say, "Guys, I have it! I know it's here! Come back and help!" (The mouse is still by the hamper, I'd like to remind you.) Now I'm getting dressed, trying to watch this and dress at the same time so I can jump out of the way if the mouse starts diving at my now-bare feet. (Mike is exclaiming that the cats have the mouse worn out. Of course, I say, it ran right TOWARD me to get away from the cats. Not a wise move, nor one that a field mouse at the height of its energy and thinking abilities would make.)
Maury can't see the mouse, apparently, and is wondering off, looking for it yet again, but Mike moves the hamper, and George moves faster than Mike has ever seen him move (other than running to you when he thinks he's getting soft food, tuna, or dead cooked pig). So now George is monopolizing the chase, and how! This cat knows how to catch. He's chasing it just as fast as Maury was earlier, but under a suitcase and then (after I moved the suitcase), under my fuzzy red slippers and into a pile of belts or straps of some sort that has fallen off of one of the unpacked boxes, and back between my slippers. (Seriously, I've got to start hanging my shoes up, as much as the mice like to hide under and around them.)
Mike pounds on the slipper really hard and then lifts it (the mouse is a little dazed, but still alive). George picks it up, holding it high in his mouth, and PRANCES out of the bedroom and down the hall. But he drops it, and it runs back down the hall toward the bedroom. It stops right in front of Maury and rolls over on its side, popping its feet up in the air, playing dead. (Very smart mouse, because now the cats just stare at it, like, "Hey! The toy stopped working!" I tell Mike to finish the mouse off, because it has now started to twitch, and it's most likely in some pain, having gone through the earlier crushing. So he does, and then he lets it lie there for a bit while he goes to get some toilet paper to pick it up with.
"Isn't it ironic that the cat with no claws is the better hunter?" Mike asks. But George is older and has more experience and has always shown more of the down-and-dirty potential in his playing with toys. Maury just likes to chase things and often loses interest after catching them, but George loves beating the crap out of them and then picking them up and throwing them to a new place so he can pick them up and beat the crap out of them again.
The cats sit in the hall, staring at the mouse's prone figure, and then, next thing we know, George has eased up and sniffed the mouse. Then he picks it up and runs into the living room with it, Maury following closely. Then follows the ritual of George holding his "kill" and standing very still to warn Maury off. (I have pictures of this intricate dance.) And then, realizing that Maury is not going to steal credit for his kill, George drops the mouse. And then proceeds to pick it up and fling it through the air like he does his stuffed "puppy-mouse," apparently missing the point completely that the mouse is supposed to be ALIVE when he does all of this. We watch this for a bit, as George drops and throws the mouse a few more times. We giggle a little, more at George's delight than at the treatment of the mouse's body. Finally, he flings it, and it lands on the storage chest coffee table. Now the cats look everywhere for it but can't see it. So they stare at the storage chest. Mike is giggling maniacally and giving the mice catnip as a reward. They keep eating their nip and then stopping to stare at the storage chest, then going back to their nip, and so on. So I tell Mike to hurry up and get rid of the mouse's body before the cats figure out where it is. We know that George likes to devour his toy mice tail-first, and I really don't want to find that puked up somewhere when I get home tonight. And nothing like finding mouse intestines strewn about the house, Mike points out.
So the kitties were rewarded with a lot of catnip, and although they didn't technically make the kill, they got much further this time than ever before. Who knows, by spring, maybe they will have made a kill all on their own.
Then, next fall, we'll have to start the learning curve all over again...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)