Country Life

I have a story to tell you.
  Once upon a time.....
Nope.
It's not that kind of a story,
It was a dark and stormy night....
Just kidding.
It wasn't dark, it wasn't stormy, and it wasn’t even night.
It was morning.
My story starts with…
That cat!
That darn cat!
Yeah. We're talkin' bout  Smudge!
Every since I stopped kenneling Smudge at night, he has found our bed. Last time I told you about Smudge thinking bedtime was playtime and we discouraged that. Smudge is smart and learns fast. Now if he starts to play, Mike tells him to stop and he does.
I woke the other morning with a Smudge on my face. Groan! I opened my eyes and looked at the naked window. In the country your windows don't need any dressing. I detected a faint glow and knew it was early — how early? I didn't know. I picked this warm and fuzzy little kitten body from my face and tossed him to the bottom of the bed.
"Grrrrrrrr rrrrrr rrrrrrrrrrup!" said Itsy as she sprang into attack mode. Smudge must have landed on top of her and she always reacts that way if you touch her when she’s sleeping.
  I picked up my Nook from my bedside and checked the time. Almost six in the a.m. Sigh. Too early. I turned my Nook off, rolled onto my side, set my Nook down, closed my eyes, and pulled the covers up under my chin. Another half hour, I think. Then I'll get up.
Then I feel it. I feel these tiny little footsteps. They start at my feet and creep up behind my back. As they get to the back of my neck I feel little kitten breaths snuffling in my ear. Then the sound started.
“Purr puurrr puurrr…”
I couldn't help myself, I smiled. There's just something about the purr of a cat that's very satisfying.
Smudge settled himself right there.
I was rather enjoying the slight weight of Smudge's body, the warmth he exuded, the sound of his love and contentment in my ear, however, each exhale tickled my ear.
I hated to do it, but I did. I reached up, picked him up and gently tossed him to the bottom of the bed again. “Go away,” I told him. "You're tickling me." I rolled unto my back and put my arm over my eyes.
Then I feel it. I feel these tiny little footsteps. They creep ever so softly up beside me. A feel a step on my arm, a step on my chest, a snuffle on my cheek, my nose, my mouth.
“Purrrr puuurrrr puuurrr,” says Smudge not at all put off that he can't get to my ear. He backs up and I feel two little feet on my chest, on my throat, and I think he's going to walk across me, but he doesn't. He lays down instead. Right there across my throat.
And I think, I am the luckiest woman in the world.
Yeah. No. What I actually think, and I know you're going to think this is weird, but what I really thought was, Too bad I don't have a sore throat.
"Peg, I can't wait to hear this story," you say.
I know, right! You guys know me so well you can smell a story coming a mile away! You're right. There is a story.
As I was laying there, feeling the weight and warmth and softness of Smudge; feeling his body expand and contract with each breath; hearing his contented purring; I thought of an old curmudgeon I used to work with.
Burdette Boggs.
I worked for a window manufacturer. We made windows for the RV industry as well as truck and bus windows. I worked in the RV department but wanted to transfer into bus machining.
I was warned about Burdette, the machine setup man, before I ever met him. One of the things the ladies I worked with took exception to was that he didn't believe in changing his work clothes every day. Monday he would come in with clean clothes on. By the end of the week “his clothes could practically stand on their own," Nancy bet me once.
“Why don’t you change your work clothes everyday?” blunt little me asked him once.
“It makes too much work for my wife. Besides, I’m just going to get them dirty again.”
One day I was working on a drill press beside a young lady and she was obviously upset. “What’s wrong” I asked.
“Burdett told me I was going to hell because I’m not married,” an obviously pregnant Deanna wiped back a tear. “He’s told that to other girls too.”
I got my righteous indignation on. I went up to Burdette, put my finger in his chest and I said, "Where do you get off at telling these girls they're going to hell just because they're pregnant and not married?"
"The Bible says it's a sin to have sex outside of marriage," he said and he's right of course.
I didn't know much about the Bible at the time, not that I’m any expert now, but this I knew. "You don't get to decide where anybody's going! Doesn't the Bible also say, 'Judge not least you be so judged'? You stop telling these girls that!"
Burdette walked away and we were friends from that day forward.
I was on a machine one morning and Burdette walked up to me, unwrapping a cough drop.
"Do you know what I do when I get a sore throat?" he asked.
I had this one! “Cough drops?” I said smugly.
"No." Now he was looking smug.
“You gargle with salt water," an old home remedy my mother uses.
“No.”
"I don't know then."
"Before you go to bed, take your sock and wrap it around your neck and pin it. When you wake up your throat will be better."
"Really!" I said, paused and thought about it for a minute. "Well it kind of makes sense. It would keep your throat warm."
Burdette was grinning like the Cheshire cat at this point. I should have know there was more to come.
"Here's the secret," and he leaned in a little closer. "You have to use the sock you wore all day."
"Ewww, Burdette! Why can't you use a clean one?"
"It won't work," he said. "Try it."
I can't say that I ever tried it, but a nice warm kitten seems like it might do the trick too.
So, there I lay with a purring Smudge laying across my throat and I stood it for as long as I could. "Smudge," I said and picked him up. "Go away." And I gave him a little toss. Then I rolled onto my side again making sure to cover my ear and my throat.
Then I feel it again. I feel these tiny little footsteps. They creep ever so softly up behind my back. Smudge gets to where my ear should be and he stops to sniff. He's still purring. Then I feel his little footsteps as he gets up on my pillow and unceremoniously plops down on my head.
I laid there for a little while and listened to his purrs but in the end I decided to get up. It was like six twenty.
Smudge is still trying to find his place in our family but being a kitten and full of energy, he blazes a path wherever he goes. One of his favorite past times of late is to torment Molly, our twelve year old calico. Molly doesn't want anything to do with Smudge so he ambushes her every chance he gets. Molly will sit and growl and hiss at him but is never in a hurry to leave. She'll put up with his antics longer than you might think she would judging by all the noise she makes.

Macchiato? You ask.
Macchiato is warming up to him. I make them share a supper dish and he doesn't hiss at Smudge anymore. Just this past week Mike caught them snuggling together on the bed in a patch of sunshine. That’s progress.
Itsy still won't play with Smudge but he’s wearing her down.

Ginger plays with Smudge quite a bit.
I found a new cat toy for Smudge. It was one I bought for Missy a long time ago and she never played with it. It ended up in a box where I found it and tossed it out onto the floor where Smudge found it. He was playing with it and carried it close to me.
I reached down, took hold of it, gave it a little shake and said, "Gimme that."
Surprise! He let me have it!
I shook it in his face until I had his attention, then I gave it a little toss.
Surprise! He chased it! He caught it. He ripped it’s throat out, rolled over on top of it and eviscerated it. Then he picked it up and carried it back to me.

Cool! I think. But once or twice could be an accident. A fluke. Would he do it again?
I reach down and took the toy from him again saying, "Gimme that!" I really did expect some resistance. I've played with cats enough to know that if they don't want to give something up - they won’t. They’ll grab it with their claws and maybe growl a little. Not Smudge. He gave it up willingly and watched what I would do with it.
I tossed it.
He ran after it, grabbed it, bit it, tumbled over it, kicked it a couple of times, got up with it in his mouth, and brought it back to me.
“Mike, Smudge is playing fetch with me!”
“Yeah?” he said with little interest. He was watching TV.
I tossed it again but Smudge didn't see where it went; he just sat there, looking up at me with those big eyes of his. Not knowing how this was going to play out, I did the only thing I knew to do. "It's over there Smudge, go get it!" I said in an excited voice. He just looked at me expectantly. I fake threw, but Smudge just looked confused. Well, it was worth a try. It works for dogs! I had to get up, go get it myself and bring it back to my chair. Smudge waited for me. This time when I threw it I made sure he saw where it went.
And he chased it — and he brought it back.
This was fun. I've never had a cat play fetch with me before! Heck, I've never had a dog that played fetch with me like Smudge was doing and Ginger and Itsy have never played fetch with me at all. I did try to teach Itsy when she was a pup but I never got that job done and I gave up on it.
Little did I realize that that the girls were watching. After I had tossed it a half a dozen times or so, Itsy came tearing from the sidelines with a snarl, snapped at Smudge and grabbed the toy. She didn't really want it and she dropped it. Smudge picked it up and brought it back to me. The next time I threw it, Ginger went for it as well as Itsy and Smudge. Ginger is the fasted and Itsy growled and snipped at her as she tore past. She picked up her prize, carried it a little ways away and dropped it. I did try to coax Ginger into bringing it back to me but she wouldn’t. Smudge picked it up and brought it back to me.

Now, just to be clear, I don’t normally leave a pile of papers on the floor but that Smudge! He had climbed up on the shelf under the TV and knocked down all of the mail that was sitting there waiting for the shredder.
We played fetch for a long time.
That night I was laying in bed, on my side, playing solitaire on my Nook. I like to play a few rounds before I go to sleep, but this night Smudge wanted Ginger’s spot in front of my belly and Ginger yielded her spot to him as she jumped over my legs and curled up behind my knees. I continued my game.
Then I feel it. I feel these tiny little footsteps. They creep up in front of my belly and a little Smudge face appears under my Nook. I smile at him. He sniffs my chin, my mouth, turns and plops down in the hollow of my arm pit, his paws on my arm. The only light in the room was a faint moon glow through the window and my Nook. The movement of my fingers and the cards on the screen caught Smudge’s attention. He watched for a minute and then for whatever reason his little head swivels around and he looks at me. Then back to the screen. He reached up his little paw and took a tentative swipe; at the cards or my finger, I don't know. Then he watched for a while, very intently too, I might add, because his little ears were perked straight up. Then he looked back to me. Back at the screen. Back to me. All of a sudden with no warning at all, Smudge reached up and jabbed my eye!
“SMUDGE!” I say in a quiet yell. I didn’t want to wake Mike but I did.
“What?” he asked.
“Smudge jabbed my eye!”
Mike grunted and rolled over.
I’m guessing Smudge saw a reflection of the screen in my eye, maybe even the motion of my fingers or the cards and that’s why he did it. Nonetheless it hurt and I squoze it shut trying to get some cleansing tears to form. But every time I opened my eye up, it stung. I closed it again and rubbed it a little and tried to open it again. But it wasn't working. Did he scratch my eye? I wondered. I decided I'd just keep my eye closed and play solitaire one-eyed.
DANG! He got my good eye! With my cataract I don't see very well out of the other one. Finally I just turned off my Nook and resigned myself to going to sleep. It'll be better in the morning.
Only it wasn't.
I woke up and my eye was still stinging and burning. It reminded me of the time I was in the shower, used a facial scrub that contained walnut shell fragments, washed one into my eye instead of off my face, rubbed it and ripped my eye. It didn’t hurt all the time, just once in a while. I finally got tired of it and went to the optome… optama… eye doctor and he said the reason was because I tore a flap in my eye and when it flipped open it stung but when it righted itself it didn't hurt me. He prescribed some meds and it got better...
Now what did I do with the rest of that tube? I wondered. With our recent move, I'm still looking for stuff! I checked in all the places I knew to check in the house and I couldn't find it. Maybe it's still in the RV, I thought.
After I dressed I went down to the RV and I started poking around. Our Bago has a huge under bed compartment! You could probably get six bodies in there if you stacked them just right! Not that I would ever think of doing such a thing! It's huge!

In our under bed compartment we have two chairs — each in their own protective bag — a leaf extension for our table — also in a protective bag, a dust mop, broom, dustpan, Cricut machine and four boxes containing materials and accessories for said Cricut machine, ironing board — travel size of course, iron — full size, two of Kat's paintings, a basket of desk findings, a small tote of bathroom oddities, grandfather's hexagon barrel shotgun - wrapped in a blanket, slippers, shoes, The Boss, by Eureka, vacuum sweeper, spare bags for said sweeper, a set of a multi-colored ceramic kitchen knives still in their plastic casing  (I'll open them when I need them!), two teal feathers from a Macaw (we know someone) twin size foam egg crate pad I used on the old Bago bed (cause it had a divot where my fat butt lay), various items of clothing, and a cushion for a patio lounge chair. All of that and whatever else I've forgotten. A lot of stuff I know. And none of it important enough that I unpacked it. It was safe. I knew where it was if I needed it. And right now all I needed was to find that optha… opto… optomolic…  eye ointment!
Dang! I miss my spell check! I’m on my Nook but that’s another story.
I walk down to the new garage, open the door, turn on the power switch, the lights came on, make my way to the bedroom, lift the power assist platform of the bed and what do I see?
A nest.
A mouse nest to be exact. And boy was it pretty. The pieces of paper were all neatly woven together and I could appreciate the workmanship even if I didn’t appreciate what it meant. I reached down and felt a piece. What is that? Paper towel? Toilet paper? I looked around. There is nothing under the bed made from paper. The bathroom was right next door; Did she carry it from there? I got up and opened the bathroom door. Nope, the toilet paper in there was whole and intact. In my mind’s eye flashed a picture of the front bay on the opposite side of the RV. That’s where I’d stuffed a bag of paper towels and toilet paper when we packed up for our move. Did she carry it from there? That’s thirty-five feet! How many trips did she have to make?

I picked up the nest and set it side. The tub with the bathroom odds and ends in it was right there. I pulled the lid off and rummaged through it, but no tube of eye medicine could be found. I put the lid back on and shut the bed.
Mike was waiting for me. We had a shopping trip on the agenda that day and let me tell you! Nothing is close in Pennsylvania. A shopping trip for us is an all day adventure. We went shopping and I suffered through the burning and stinging in my eye, never thinking to buy eye drops while we were at Wal Mart, Luckily by mid afternoon my eye was better and I haven’t heard a thing from it since.
The next day Mike wanted to move the truck and trailer around in the new garage. We had it parked on the left as you look at the garage and we couldn’t put it the whole way to the back wall because of a sewer pipe, but if we moved it over to the other side, we could put it against the back wall and give us a little more room in the front.

I helped Mike get Big Red backed up and hitched to the trailer. “Now Peg,” he says to me. “I want you to watch that side of the trailer,” he said indicating the passenger side. “I can see this side.”
Now, just to be clear, and to dispel any doubt, I did my job. What happens next is totally not my fault.
I watched Mike clear the passenger side of the doorway until I knew he wasn’t going to hit it, then I turned my attention elsewhere.
Screeeeeetch!
Mike stopped.
I glanced up and saw the passenger side was clear. I walked around and looked at the drivers side and saw it was against the garage door.
“There’s no door there Peg,” Mike says.
“Okay, then I’ll call it a doorway.”
Mike was against the doorway and had raked a marker light off the top of the trailer.
“Why weren’t you watching this side?” Mike asked me.
I got my defenses on. “You only told me to watch the passenger side. I did that!”
“But you know I can’t see this side when I turn.”
And that’s what happened. Mike turned and the tail swing put the back of the trailer into the side of the doorway. Mike got back in the truck, turned his truck wheels and tried to back up but that only made it worse. Ultimately, in the end, an hour later, we ended up jacking up the trailer which got it off the garage doorway, then built a bridge with two by sixes and drove it on out.
When we got everything tucked in the way Mike wanted it, I decide that since I was already in the garage, I might just as well carry some things from the under bed storage. I needed to clean it out sooner or later anyway. I went into the RV, turned on the lights, picked up the bed and started hauling things out.
Out came the bed pad, the lounge cushion, the bathroom and desk boxes, the vacuum cleaner, the Cricut stuff, the iron, Kat’s paintings, a couple of sweaters, shoes, and I get to the back of the compartment and pick up one of the chairs and I see it.
“See what Peg?” you ask.
I see another mouse nest and this one had a mama and babies in it. I quickly set the chair back down, got up and went out of the RV where I met up with Mike. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“There’s a nest of mice under the bed.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get the cats. That what I’ve got’em for.”
I called the kitties and one by one picked them up, took them to the RV, opened the door, tossed them inside and closed the door. When I had Feisty, the fourth and final one, I carried her inside and set her down. She freaked out and ran, slipping and sliding across the floor until she got to the drivers seat where she dived under.
“Come on babies,” I called and went into the bedroom. No one was coming. I picked up Spitfire, carried him to the bedroom, picked up the chair hoping the mice were still there — they were— and said, “Get the mice,” and I put him down.
The mesous… mouses…  mice started running and caught his attention. The mama mouse was reddish brown and the babies were gray, which surprised me. Spitfire caught a baby right away. He growled protectively but when another baby caught his attention he dropped the one he held and went after it. I had hoped the other cats would hear the distress cries and come running but they didn’t. I went and got Rascal and he joined in the hunt. There were still a few things in there for the mice to hide under and one of those things was the other chair in it’s protective bag. When I picked it up to take it out, baby mice started running everywhere. It startled me and I dropped it.
There were mice running everywhere! The babies couldn’t quite manage the jump over the two foot high compartment walls but Mama could and she hid under the things I’d pulled out. I chased her from hiding place to hiding place (don’t ask me what I was going to do when I caught her) while Spitfire and Rascal chased the babies around the rodeo pit. Eventually mama got away and I gave up on her. I stood and watched the cats but they were just playing.
My cats were useless. They weren’t killing the mice. They weren’t even hanging onto the ones they caught. I had to catch the mice myself, but how?
I don’t know if my days of watching Tom & Jerry were paying off or if it was playing the Mouse Trap game with my brothers but inspiration strikes.
A bowl!
I went out to the kitchen cabinet and got some plastic storage containers and I caught three baby mice under three of the bowls which wasn’t hard. They were exhausted. I held my breath as I picked up the chair where the babies were hiding and I see I’d managed to kill two babies when I dropped it.
Well I won’t have to worry about those two, I thought.
Then I picked up my useless mousers and tossed them out of the RV. I went up to the house, the wheels in my head churning the whole way. How was I going to get the mice from under the bowls and what was I going to do with them? I could see me trying to slide a card under the bowls and losing the mice. I dismissed that idea. I know. I’ll get a trash can and my leather gloves. I went into the kitchen and took the bag out of my tall kitchen trash can, plopped it unceremoniously on the floor and went out. Luckily I didn’t have to go looking for my gloves; I knew where they were. I stopped at the little table outside the door and picked up my gloves. On my way back to the garage I had some company.
“Meeoowww! Meow, meow,” says Spitfire.
“You had your chance,” I told him.
“Meow, meow,” says Rascal.
“You too!”
I get back inside and set up the trash can within easy reach, took a breath and held it as I picked up one of the bowls and snatched the little gray mouse as soon as I saw him, but I needed have worried. He didn’t even try to escape. I dropped him in the bottom of my trash can with a plop. He just laid there, dead or playing dead. I picked up the second bowl and that mouse was barely moving too. He plopped in the bottom of the trash can too. The third one was in a similar state of exhaustion and I felt much better when I had them all in the can.
I took them out to the yard where Spitfire was waiting for me. The mice in the bottom of my can have magically come alive and I reached down and grabbed one. I gave him to Spitfire.

I gave another to Feisty. They weren’t killing them though, they were just torturing them.
I wanted them dead!
Ginger, I thought. Yorkies are mousers. I thought of the time Itsy found a little mouse and tried to kill it (I was afraid and didn’t let her), and another time Ginger tried to eat a dead one she found. At least this one was fresh.
I let the trash can sit there and went in and got Ginger. “Come on, Ginger. Boy have I got something for you!” I told her and she eagerly followed me. Out in the yard she got sidetracked a little when she saw the cats had something.
“Over here,” I called. “You can have one of your own.”
I reached down in the trash can and pulled out the last little mouse. I held it by it’s little tail and offered it to Ginger. As soon she got a whiff of that she snatched it before I could change my mind. She dropped it on the ground. The little guy got to his feet but didn’t go far before Ginger was on him.
Crrrrunch, crunch crunch.
I cringed.
Then Ginger dropped it and looked up at me.
It was dead. “Good girl,” I told her. And just about the time I started think she wasn’t going to eat it, she did.
Yeah.
I took Ginger back inside and told Mike what I did. “What if she gets worms again?”
“I guess we’ll treat her.”
I set traps in the RV and that night I caught the mama.
“How do you know it was the mama?” you wonder.
The color was my first clue. She was a reddish brown when all of the other mice I’ve ever caught were gray. When I picked up the trap and saw the underbelly I knew it was indeed the mama mouse. She had no hair around her nipples which indicates she was nursing babies. I gave her to the kittens.
The next day when Rosie and Lamar were here I asked them, “I know you let Trouble eat whatever he caught, didn’t you worry about him getting worms?”
Lamar shrugged. He really doesn’t worry about anything very much.
“If he got worms we’d just treated him,” Rosie said likes it’s no big deal.
I don’t know how often he got worms but he was an impressive hunter. He’d bring back snakes, birds, chipmunks (some people call them ground squirrels), and whistle pigs (some people call them woodchucks). “But his favorite thing was if he found a nest of baby rabbits, then he was in heaven.” Lamar laughed and went on. “He’d get them all. And he once caught an eighteen inch trout. I didn’t let him have it, I took it away from him and put it back in the creek. Another time he caught the same turtle twice. I put it back in the creek down by the bridge and two days later he came back with the same one.”
I had it in my head to ask how he knew it was the same one but before I could, he went on.
“I could tell because of the teeth marks and the markings on the shell. He couldn’t eat that either.”
And we all laughed. I know how much my girls enjoy it when they find a turtle and I let them work it for a little bit.
So I decided I wouldn’t worry if Ginger got worms cause she ate a mouse, but I’d watch her poopy though. I kinda feel like the natural protein would do her good and I can’t help but feel, maybe erroneously, that country mice are healthier than city mice because of the things they eat.
A couple of days later I see something strange looking by the patio. I walked past it a few times before I decided to investigate. I flipped it over and I realized I was looking at a partially digested mouse body.
“Ewwww, Peg!”
I know right! And I touched it with my finger!
So maybe Ginger sicked up her mouse.
I regaled Momma with the mouse portion of this story on the phone that day. “They’re not hungry,” she said. “If they were hungry they’d have killed them right off.”
Yeah. We take good care of our family.
That cat!
That darn cat!
Yeah, Sumdge.
He wanted to help me write my story but the letters he picks don’t make words. I had to put a road block up to keep him off my keyboard.

And with that, we shall call this one done!
“Wait, wait, wait, Peg,” you say. “You never told us why you were on your Nook and not your computer.”
You’re right. I didn’t.
We had an impromptu family reunion last weekend, in Texas. I didn’t take my computer because it was just a short weekend trip but I took my Nook. During my layovers and on my flights, I worked on this story. Even though I have a document writer program on my Nook, it doesn’t have spell check.
So next time, The Gangs All Here.

And with that, we will call this one done.