Six tiny mice have been captured by my cat Narf within the last three days.
Narf was stirring at 3 am on Sunday morning, along with the first of the six mice that was bitten hard in the feline’s mouth. Blood splattered the white sheet that covers the futon mattress that rests on the floor, without a frame.
“What the hell are those cats doing?” B asked, rolling over on our bed, not causing me to stir, due to the fact that our mattress is right on the floor. “They nearly knocked over the shelf. See what he’s got.”
“It’s a mouse. It’s already dead, I think. Let me get the broom and dustpan.”
Narf growled like a dog when I tried to convince him to drop the mouse in his mouth upon my blue, plastic dust pan.
Link, the other cat and only tabby in our house, suddenly grabbed the mouse from Narf’s mouth and ran into the room without furniture. There is only a fish tank, a wobbly chrome coat rack, and a guitar propped up in the corner in that room. We call it the living room, but don’t actually live in there, we just pass through.
Link dropped the mouse upon my flip flops and I quickly scooped it up. The mouse was so small I was able to flush it down the toilet.
Two more mice were captured yesterday morning at 3 a.m. Each cat had one in the kitchen. Link was swatting his around, |Narf was growling with one in his mouth.
“They are just babies!” B called with a tired, raspy voice, “Get them with your dustpan before Narf kills another one. Throw it right out the window.”
It seemed Narf understood B. He dropped the mouse he had captured. It was still alive and seemed to know to get upon my blue dustpan. I tossed it from our second floor window. It was too dark to see if the rodent had survived.
Link’s mouse got away; under the black refrigerator it dashed while the cat hunkered over in despair. Two hours later, Narf had captured the mouse that Link let go and he wounded the tiny creature terribly. Several tiny arms seemed severed, yet I tossed it from the window that faces West. A full moon appeared above me; the image of the shiny disk to my blurry eyes was that of a cat eye– an omen perhaps, a good sign maybe, or simply a moment of mourning for a seemingly useless rodent.
The fifth and final mouse was pulled from the hole in the floor behind the black stove at 3 am this morning. Narf sits there all night. He peeks down the hole in the tile floor where a gas pipe runs from the first floor– the home of Maria Gonzalez, a Mexican lady who speaks no English, but somehow has managed to befriend me enough to complain last week about an infestation of mice in her apartment. She urged me to come inside and see the glue trap on which there was a tiny, grey field mouse lost in a maze of cereal boxes stacked to the ceiling, tons of Tupperware containers filled with every conceivable dried rice and stick bun.
“Get a gato,” was what I said to Maria Gonzalez that day, and laughed.
Perhaps she did get a cat and that’s why the mice are all scrambling up here.
“Maybe we should plug up that hole,” B suggested this morning before leaving for work at 5:30 a.m.
“No, let’s let Narf handle this,” I said, “There cannot be that many more.”