(I don't have a title yet)
Once a small brown mouse got into the basement and couldn’t get out. It scurried into a corner, hopping and clawing at the wall. It found the shabby sofa, got a grip on the upholstery, and climbed to the arm, where it perched. Waiting. Nose twitching.
“Don’t stop running,” I told it silently. “Don’t! You can outsmart Roxy the cat!”
For days the mouse scuttled around, successfully hiding from Roxy. And then, thwack went the trap! I feared the worst. In an instant I saw a flash of brown run under the sofa. The mouse was okay.
“Run mouse,” I whispered. “You are indeed brave.” Though I couldn’t see it, I know it was hiding, twitching, waiting to respond to the next hazard.
|I don't yet have a name for my |
basement cat character.
The tubby calico ate a lot and as a result pooped a lot. And she was a slob. Half the time, she backed up too far to do her business and missed the litter box entirely. Her deposits ended up on the floor or balanced on the edge of the box. The Tackett’s tried to remedy Roxy’s toileting challenges by providing a bigger wider litter pan. She still somehow managed to unload on the floor. As you can imagine, it didn’t smell too sweet. I had no choice but to relieve myself in the corner. There was no way I was going to try to tiptoe around her turds to use the facilities. The Tackett’s placed a second receptacle, right by the first one and Roxy the cat-pig somehow managed to spoil them both. This did not make Michael’s parents happy. But evidently, my urine was deemed more objectionable than Roxy’s turds and I ended up in the basement, with my own litter box.