All night, Vincent’s been sitting by the bookshelf. He’s been poking his nose into the shelves and mewing and generally being a pest.
During dinner, I said to my daughter “What’s he looking for?”
She went over and took a peek. “It’s just one of his toy mice,” she said as she came back to the table. “It’s stuck in between the wall and the shelf.”
Well, four hours later, I’m standing here typing and Vincent is still doing his paranoid-cat-staring-at-the-shelf routine. Then, I hear a scratching noise. Something’s behind the bookshelf . . . no, something’s stuck between the bookshelf and the wall.
It’s a mouse, a real one not a toy. It’s very small and frightened.
I call my own personal Athena for some wisdom and, following her instructions, lock Vincent in my room and coax the mouse out with a manila envelope and a bowl.
I take it outside and set it free, hoping that’s what’s best.
It looked very relieved when it peeked out from behind the bookcase to look at me, as if to say “Well, you’re not so bad. At least that fucking cat is gone.”
Poor little guy. I hope it’s okay.