I know what everyone calls people like me, a crazy cat lady. Maybe I do prefer the company of cats to people, but they understand me in a way people don’t. As I near the “Golden Years,” my cats have become the family I never had. I have my two boys, Moose and Tuvok, nicknamed Fattums and Baddums. Two lovable, adorable, and utterly rotten animals. Fattums eats everything in sight and Baddums likes to projectile vomit all over the house. I imagine if I had children, they would act like them. Which probably explains why I never had any kids.
And like anyone with kids, while I love my boys dearly, there are days I want to murder them. Today was just such a day. I came home from work, took off my shoes, and was just getting comfortable when Tuvok walked up and rubbed up against my legs. This normally wouldn’t be a cause for alarm. But as I reached down to pet him, I saw something wiggling in his mouth. Bending closer, I found he had a damn mouse in his mouth.
Of course, I screamed like a girl and jumped, which scared Tuvok. Stupid cat dropped the mouse. While it scurried off, Tuvok looked up at me as if to say, “Are you going to get that?”
Ignoring him, I moved into the dining room, flipping on every light as I went. My eyes scoured every nook and cranny. Not finding anything moving around, I crept toward the kitchen. Reaching around the corner, I turned on the light then looked inside. Nothing on the floor at least. Sliding past the doorway, I grabbed the first thing I could get my hands on, an old, heavy pot. Holding it by the handle like a baseball bat, I searched. Nothing out of the ordinary. Wherever that mouse went, it was gone.
Looking back, I found Moose, reminding me that I’ve neglected my duty to feed him as soon as I walked in the door. Praying the mouse would go visit my neighbors, I made my way upstairs with Moose right behind me. Reaching the top stair, Moose dashed by me, almost knocking me back down the stairs again in his rush to get to his dish before I do. I grabbed the railing to steady myself while cussing him out. He ignored me and raced into the cat room. Much good it’ll do him to kill me by knocking me down the stairs! He’ll never be fed then.
After I fed the ungrateful baggage, I changed clothes and headed back downstairs to get my own dinner. As I entered the kitchen, I spotted Tuvok sitting on the floor, staring up at the stove. Looking up, I found what had his attention. That damn mouse was sitting on my stove, cleaning his whiskers. Tuvok, that worthless cat, was doing nothing but watching him.
I inched around the corner. I kept looking around for my broom then back at the mouse. Didn’t want it to escape again. I finally found my broom and grabbed it. The mouse, sensing his pending death, scurried across the counter. Holding up the broom like a ninja warrior, I yelled, “DIE,” as I swung at that damn mouse. In the next instant, I knew I made a huge mistake. But, I couldn’t stop it from happening. In slow motion, I watched the broom miss the mouse and smash into my favorite pink wine glass. It flew against the wall and shattered. Glass flying everywhere, I screamed, “WHAAAAA!”
Furious now, I’ll admit, I became a little deranged. That glass was from my mother. Granted, it didn’t match any damn thing else in the house, but I loved it! The rodent managed to escape while I was distracted with the destruction of my wine glass. I looked all over for the vermin and spotted him moving near the wall.
“There you are, you little bastard!”
The damn thing actually paused and looked back at me as if to say, “Who? Me?”
Apparently, I didn’t learn my lesson the first time. Raising the broom over my head, I raced forward to smash it, only to stop abruptly when a piece of glass punctured the bottom of my foot. Dropping the broom, I cried out, “Ouch! Damn it, damn it, damn it,” as I hopped on one foot away from the rest of the broken glass.
Reaching the doorway back to the dining room, I clutched the wood trim to maintain my balance. I lifted my foot and found the piece of glass still stuck to me. I pulled it out, cursing out the mouse and cats the entire time. Putting my foot down, I stood up, looked into the dining room, and found the boys sitting together, watching me. Their tails twitched back and forth and I could swear they were smiling at my debacle. What’s more entertaining to a cat than a crazy woman swinging a broom at a mouse?
Noticing me glaring at them, both cats turned and insolently walked away. Hopping over to a chair, I sat down and carefully examined my foot. No permanent damage, but damn, it hurt like hell. Grabbing a napkin from the holder, I took off my sock and pressed the napkin to the cut. It took several minutes and cursing a blue streak, but it finally stopped bleeding.
Standing, I’m ready to limp my way into the living room to put my feet up and happened to look back in the kitchen. There was the little bastard, back on top of my stove, doing a victory lap. Cursing out lazy cats, rat bastard mice, and the world in general, I limped into the living room. The mouse won this battle, but I would win the war!
The next day, I came home from work, armed and ready to do battle. I stopped at the store and bought Tomcat Glue Traps. The description on the box drew my attention, “Tomcat glue traps represent the very latest in glue trap technology.” That had better mean they’ll hold the little bastard. I placed them around my kitchen and dining room then the waiting game began.
Every day I’d come home from work and dutifully check the traps. Every day the damn things were empty. A week went by. The traps remained empty, but I didn’t see the mouse either. I started to wonder. Maybe my lazy cats did their job and I just haven’t found the body? Maybe the mouse decided to move into my neighbor’s house instead? Another week went by without a mouse sighting. Deciding either the thing was dead or moved on, I quit turning on all the lights and looking around every corner before walking into a room.
Now, I don’t cook a whole lot since I’m the only one here to eat it. Mostly I get by on salads, frozen microwave dinners, and sandwiches. One night, I decided to treat myself to a take and bake pizza. I turned on the oven, put the pizza in, and went to put my feet up while I waited for the timer to go off.
Sitting back in my recliner, I picked up the remote control and turned the television on. Moose decided to join me, sitting across my lap as I stroked his back with my free hand. Just as I was getting into the evening news, this smell started coming from the kitchen. It wasn’t a smell one would expect when you put a pizza in the oven either.
Pushing Moose from my lap, much to his irritation, I rose and went to investigate. Approaching the kitchen, the smell was much stronger. I looked at the top of my stove, nothing there. Opening the oven, the smell almost knocked me over. I turned the oven off. Next, I pulled the half-baked pizza out of the oven and looked. For God’s sake, I just cleaned this oven a couple of weeks ago. Haven’t made anything that cooked over that would cause a smell like this.
Pulling out the rack, I set it on top of the stove and looked again. Finally, I spotted it. The sight had me ready to toss my cookies. A half-baked mouse lay dead in the back corner of the oven. Well, that’s where the little bastard went. I slammed the oven door closed.
No dinner for me that night. You could say I lost my appetite. I tossed the pizza into the garbage. It would be a long damn time before I could think about pizza and not remember cooked mouse smell too! I had to wait for the oven to cool down before I could clean out the remains.
Next day, I went out and bought burner covers for my stove. Almost burned my damn house down with them too. But, that’s another story…