It is just after 12:00am here on the West Coast and, again, Isabella (the cat of this house) has caught another mouse. I am house-sitting for a friend- who has much more of a mouse problem than he ever knew or let on. I know this because every day for the last three days Isabella has caught one while I was watching her. Today, two.
Isabella is maybe 12 weeks old. She's a tiny little tortoise-shell colored kitty with an unusually-long tail. A seemingly-
prehensile tail.
And she is the world's greatest mouser. The Manfred von Richthofen of mousers. Now normally this would not be worth mentioning, except that I am unable to put the kitty, twitching prize in mouth, outside the house to finish the long grim dance that a cat has with a mouse before finally eating it. Because there is a way that she can get back into the house that I cannot block-off. And she always brings the damned mouse back with her to continue the one-act play. I refuse to take the mouse away from her and dispose of it in some alternative manner- I feel it's her meal earned and the least I can do in appreciation for being rid of vermin is letting her eat it.
But, frankly, I'm getting unnerved that every time I dip into Alan Moorehead's "The White Nile" for the last half hour, for instance, I have been drawn forcibly out of that lush, head-foot jeweled prose only to be yanked out in the following way:
In a vague and general way the Sultans of Zanzibar laid claim to a part at least of this vast area, but in point of fact their power was restricted to the coastline was was not really effective even there.
(squeak) (swat) (tumble) (squeak of pain and fear)During the dry seasons slave and ivory caravans found their way into the wilderness that lay beyond and were gone for a year or more, perhaps for ever, but that was all one ever heard of Central Africa.
(squeak) (swat) (squeak) (swat) (crunch) (hideous squeak of actually being eaten alive)It was almost as remote and strange as outer space is today.
And then, even with the interruptions, that sentence sets my mind wandering and when kitty appears on my lap like some famously-subtle conjuring trick, I absent-mindedly reach out a hand to stroke her soft fur and her head shoots right up to my face, to lick and nuzzle my chin which is her personal way of saying "I love you". And
twice now it has taken the smell of something...
unusual on her breath to make me realize why I don't want her licking my face- when it was already too late. Since I would not naturally turn a mouse inside out and rub the contents on my lips I find myself
put off by this something fierce and run spitting and stammering into the bathroom where I apply whatever my friend would happen to have that would kill what haunts the insides of a mouse. So far, Scope is the disinfectant of choice.
That's it. No punch-line. I'm probably going to be here a few more days and I know this kitty is going to give me
un besito del muerto again when I least expect it. Augggh!
PB