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Poor beastie

As Robert Burns said in 1785, the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley. I had planned to post something here Monday through Friday, every week. But there I was, three days into blogging, and my ISP went down. So much for good intentions. Anyway, I’m back.

Speaking of mice, let’s consider the housekeeping habits of bookish people. Trust me, there’s a connection. In my world, the call of a good book trumps the call of a vacuum cleaner any day. I don’t intend to spend my days playing maid when there are so many good books I haven’t read. Or written. This means my house isn’t spotless, and animals sometimes invade it. Dust bunnies, for instance, and this week, a mouse. Not the computer kind. The furry kind that sounds like a squeaky-toy when the cat gets it.

I hope our little visitor was a solitary wayfarer who slipped in when the garage door was left open. When I spotted him, he was already in the jaws of the cat, who continued growling at me as I picked him up and deposited him and his mouthful of mouse in the sun porch because I didn’t want blood and guts on the carpet. Now I’m not sure if the mouse is dead or alive. I haven’t found a corpse.

Please forgive me if I seem less than tender-hearted toward rodents. Blame it on my having been a 4-H mom, an experience that purged me of sentimentality toward animals. But tell me, am I the only one here who’ll admit to having the occasional unwanted house guest on four legs?

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