I never knew quite what to call him. Most of us called him
Apache, but there were a few that shouted, "Go Geronimo!"
when he would take off. He was one of those mice who refused
to remain within the walls. He had long ears and even longer
legs, and when he ran those ears laid back as if the wind was
pushing them.
Today he stuck his head out of the hole, well, his long nose,
really, and took a few sniffs. He was tired of the rainy days,
and up for a bit of excitement. The house had been quiet for
a couple hours now, and most of the pack was sleeping, but he
had decided that it was time to explore the kitchen in the brightness
of the daylight, and the adventure was only increased by the
first sunny day in over a week. He was wearing his brightest,
reddest headband, as his dark eyes and fluffy forehead poked
out into the corner of the pantry.
"Eiy, yih, yih, yih! I think I can smell that fresh
fall corn all the way from here!" He sounded almost Spanish,
imagine that. The folks had been hauling and canning for days
now. Though the tomatoes didn't create any desire in him, corn
on the cob sure did.
An old mouse in the corner was having trouble sleeping, since
his arthritis had been aggravated, and he was watching from the
corner. They all called him "Crooks," not because he
was dishonest or anything like that, but because of the way his
whiskers had been bent by years of worrying about younger mice.
And even in the darkness of the wall, you could see that his
whiskers were very much bent and crooked today. His eyes were
squinting as he watched Apache, knowing that the rush was about
to begin. Apache had quit leaning on the side of the hole, and
his legs were flexing, like a sprinter, ready for the lunge.
. . . Now meanwhile, there was a tabby cat, just climbing
onto a soft stuffed living room chair, wishing to sleep in that
little spot of sun just there on the fabric. Tabitha knew very
well how easy it was to have pleasant dreams with the sun on
her back.
She knew there were mice in the house, but it didn't bother
her. She seldom thought about it. Oh, she'd caught one about
4 years ago, but that was all. She didn't eat it, just kind of
knocked it around with her clawless paws for a while. The poor
thing was out of breath, and nearly having a heart attack by
the time she tired of the game. So she let it go. But to make
sure that it had learned it's lesson, she followed after it slowly,
step by step, with her nose practically nuzzling it's back, till
it disappeared into a crack in the floor. She puffed a few breaths
into the crack, and sniffed the fear right through the floor
boards. Then she went to one of her favorite resting places,
with a grin and a swagger, like a gunslinger. "Yah! That
mouse knows who's the boss now!"
No, they didn't bother her at all, since that day. There
wasn't much that bothered her, and nothing got her upset. She
didn't even think about them any more, but I wanted to let you
know a little bit about her feelings about mice. They could be
a nuisance, but weren't really a threat.
So, we're back to today now, or at least I am. Tabitha is
just jumping up onto the chair. It's almost all hers, that chair.
You can tell because Michael hasn't cleaned the cat hair off
of it for a while, as mother has asked him to. That's his chore.
He's only 6, and sometimes gets a little rough, but he's still
Tabitha's favorite child. Probably because he likes to take naps
in the sun too. Who knows what cats think. The mice always think
they know, but that's ego. If you were as small as a mouse, you'd
find ways to make yourself seem smarter and larger too.
Yeah, she's jumping up on to the chair, with the house all
to herself. Well, not quite. She's about halfway through the
air, when she hears one of those little squeaks in the walls
of a nearby room. A definite sign of mice. Her front feet land
on the chair and she hears an entire chorus of squeaks, like
the bleachers at a ball game.
"Nah, I don't need this! There goes a perfect afternoon
nap. Now what kind of pleasant dreams could I possibly have?"
she thinks to herself, as her back feet come up onto the edge
of chair, another perfect landing. You know that puzzled look,
that cats get sometimes, like they forgot something. They walk
into a room and just kind of stop and sit there, maybe pausing
a while and then licking a paw. Well, that was what Tabitha started
doing.
"I'm tired. I want to sleep. I don't have time to start
scouting the house for mice right now." She knew it was
her job, like, what are cats for in a country house, anyway?
"This is not how I want to spend my afternoon."
. . . As Geronimo left the safety of the hole, he let out
his loudest war whoop. To mouse ears it sounded like a whoop
anyway, but to Tabitha it was a single squeak. His bandana was
trailing behind his head, along with those long ears, as he took
off straight for the dining room, urged on by the cheers of all
the younger mice, who envied his bravery. Crooks on the other
hand was twisting his whiskers into pretzels, almost. "Bravery
matched by stupidity" was going through his mind.
Geronimo rounded the bend like a true Apache mouse, heading
for the kitchen. As he got halfway through the room, he caught
a glimpse of the sunlight, from the corner of his eyes. Yes,
it was a flash of sunlight on a furry patch of orange on that
chair in the next room. His ears twitched forward, but it was
too late to stop now. He was on a corn mission quest.
At just about this time, Pretzel . . . Oops, I mean Crooks,
started to tell a story to some of the younger mice, who were
so eager to run out of the hole, to chase after Geronimo, and
see what trouble he got into.
It was quiet in the house, since the Christmas season was
right around the corner, and the family was out shopping for
gifts. While he spoke it seemed like his voice echoed louder
than usual within the dark wall, where it was nice and warm.
He too remembered his younger days, when a bit of daring adventure
made life so much more fun. But he didn't share that with the
younger mice, since he didn't want to encourage any more foolishness
than was already taking place.
To be continued . . . |
