We consult the Old Farmer’s Almanac. We examine the stripes on wooly caterpillars. We count thirty days after seeing the first migrating geese to pinpoint the first snowfall. This year, I’m adding the migration of mice indoors to the Signs of a Tough Winter to Come.
A part of me disapproves of this nerve-wracking game. Worrying about bad weather does not necessarily galvanize one into preparing for it. Any more than worrying about homework motivates a student to actually sit down and DO it. Nevertheless, temperatures are dropping and everyone I talk to has mice coming in for the winter.
We have one cat left, Minnie Mouser. A couple of weeks ago, she woke us up at 3 AM with a lot of rumpusing about. We turned on the light to see Minnie madly frolicking with something, tossing it high, leaping to make spectacular catches - in short, showing off shamelessly.
It was, of course a mouse. A dead one, but intact. I removed it and we all went back to bed.
Then, just the other night, we were awakened by scurrying. I turned on the light to find Minnie had cornered a mouse in one of the shoes under the bureau. It was a standoff. Minutes ticked by. I’m embarrassed to say that I was tired enough that the prospect of a mouse expiring in my shoe was less alarming than having to cope with a very active mouse leaping out of said shoe onto me.
My husband excels at sleeping through such emergencies. Eventually, I fell asleep again too. The next morning, I could procrastinate no longer. I gingerly inspected the shoes. No mouse.
Minnie had slept on my husband’s slippers, an ominous sign. But no mouse there, either.
Then my eye fell on his briefcase, which had been left open. I carefully began removing papers. Out sprang the mouse. Minnie gave chase, pounced and caught it. Then she deposited the mouse into one of my shoes, where it huddled in the toe as Minnie swiped around for it unsuccessfully.
I decided the mouse had had enough excitement for one lifetime, dropped a towel onto the shoe and brought it out to the raspberries, where the mouse bounded away. It was probably back inside before I was. Now I’m wondering if mice have reason to worry and lay in extensive stores of old crackers in their cozy nests under our kitchen.
To some extent, I’m willing to share the warmth of the five cords of wood my husband has split that we are now stacking daily in the woodshed. I was, after all, raised on Beatrix Potter’s Appley Dapply and Garth Williams. But I’m also plugging every entrance I can find.
No more hiding in shoes, no audible scurrying. No mouse Hacky Sack at 3 AM. And for me, no more energy-sapping, exhausting worry. One must draw the line somewhere.
