Today was a crazy busy day.
The crazy part happened this morning when I was getting ready to take a shower.
reading War and Peace sitting on the toilet when a large gray mouse scurried across the bathroom floor. I instinctively lifted my legs in the air because I didn’t want the mouse to brush up against my bare flesh. I’m pretty sure you can catch the plague or some other early-century disease from contact with a single wild mouse hair.
Anyway, I shrieked. Which leads to this question: If a butch screams and no one is home to hear it, does the scream make a sound?
I started calling for Magic, our ace mouser. It’s a very un-butch feeling to be stranded half naked, calling for your cat to help you out of a jam.
When it comes to mice, Magic is no-nonsense like Judge Judy and Kate Jackson in Charlie’s Angels, with just a touch of crazy like Lindsay Lohan. Feral cats, you have to love ’em.
Magic was nowhere to be found. Apparently, she doesn’t know the meaning of the word “help.”
Instead, I saw our cat Moon walking up the stairs with the mouse in his mouth. Moon is, well, a little soft. If he wore clothes, he’d probably don capri pants capped off with a big, billowy pirate shirt, the entire ensemble accented with an ascot. And yes, Moon would use the word “ensemble.”
I watched Moon skip down the hallway with the mouse. It was like watching Nathan Lane shoot pool or change the oil in his car.
Usually, Magic is the take-charge cat in the house, cornering mice, sneaking out of the house, engineering surprise attacks on the other cats.
Moon? Well, he likes to sleep on our bed. And he likes to have his tummy rubbed. Did I mention the sleeping thing?
After today’s act of cat-versus-mouse bravado, he’s been walking a little taller and, dare I say, strutting about the house.
“You go, Moon,” I called out to him.
He was so chill that he didn’t even look my way.
It was yet another reminder that we should all break out of our comfort zones every once in awhile.