Meeses, Mices, Mouses!

           A second letter blog in one week! Can you stand it‽

          “It’s okay by me,” my beautiful Miss Rosie said. “I like reading your stories — even when I know what’s going to be in them.”

          And writing our weekly exploits is so ingrained in me that I feel a loss when I don’t get to write.

          We had snow.

          My handsome husband made paths.

          And so did the mice!

          I went out to burn trash and saw all these trails in the snow.

          HOLY COW! I thought. It’s a whole herd of mice!

          “It could be one mouse a whole bunch of times,” you say.

          I don’t know if it was one mouse, or several mice, but it looks like a bunch of meeses to me!

           We live in an old house. We will never ever be able to keep them out. And between birdseed and cat food, they figure out where the food is.

Our lazy cats aren’t doing their jobs.

I was at my computer and heard Mike’s recliner squeak as he got up. And it squeaks again, and again, and again, and again.

He’s rocking, I thought.

          Then Bondi starts barking.

          What in the world... I thought and got up to look.

          Mike wasn’t even in the room! Bondi and Blackie were both fixated on a dark, dusty corner between Mike’s desk and the wall. And that’s where the squeaking was coming from.

          Bondi kept up a constant stream of commentary as I went around to the other side. I grabbed a flashlight and when I shone it down there, I see a mouse hiding under the transformer for Mike’s computer, crying. I do feel bad for them but not bad enough to save their lives.

          Blackie wasn’t even trying to catch him. He was just sitting there watching. Turkey.

          Spitfire heard all the commotion and was coming to investigate. He’ll kill it, I thought.

          With both Blackie and Bondi on one side of the desk, I got Spitfire and carried him around to the other side. Once he was on guard, I’d poke the mouse and see which way he ran.

          It didn’t work.

          Bondi’s barking freaked Spitfire out and he took off.

          I’m trying to get Bondi to stop barking and wrangle Spitfire into seeing the mouse, but in all the confusion, the mouse made a run for it.

          I didn’t see where he went. Only that he was gone. I checked behind and under stuff but never scared him out. I gave up. Bondi didn’t. She’s so obsessed with this mouse that she wasn’t giving up. She did stop barking though and put her nose to work. I left her to it.

          Mike came in and I told him what was going on. Together we poked around a little more but failed to find the mouse.

          The tall, covered cat condo lives in front of Mike’s desk. Bondi kept diving in and out and all around. I finally decided he must be hiding in the cover. I shook it.

          “There he goes!” Mike yelled.

          Back along the wall he travels, we’re shouting and grabbing for cats, trying to get one of them to see it. Bondi’s on his trail but takes too long sniffing it out. By this time the mouse had made his way down the length of the bookshelf, around the corner, and scampered into a crack between it and the wall. He was gone.

          “No way is he coming out of there,” I said. “Until the house is dark and quiet.”

          Nonetheless, we picked up Blackie and put his nose to the crack.

          Nothing.

          Next, we tried Spitfire.

          Nope. He wasn’t interested.

          I don't know where Tiger was.

          Bondi was paying attention and takes her turn sniffing the crack. She knew he was in there. She might stand guard for a while, but I walked away. “He’s never coming out of there.”

          Mike and I sat down to a game of cards.

“I hear him,” I said.

“What?”

“The mouse. I hear him squeaking.”

I heard three or four little squeaks while we were playing cards. After Mike won, he went into the living room while I picked the cards up.

“Bondi’s got a mouse!” he calls.

“No way!” I grabbed my camera.

“She’s rolling on it,” Mike said.

I got there in time to see that. I’m actually quite pleased that she got a mouse. But I wasn’t going to let her eat it. Ginger did once and puked it up. I wasn’t going through that again.

“Bondi!” I exclaimed. “What’cha got there!” She was biting it. I snapped a picture.

“What a good girl you are!”

She sat up and Blackie crept in for a closer look.

           Bondi wasn’t having any of that. She picked her mouse up and moved a few feet away. 

  

          I let her have it for a few minutes, then picked him up by his widdle tail and threw him outside!

          “Maybe the cat got it,” Mike says.

          And he’s right. We didn’t actually see who got it. But certain clues lead me to believe it was Bondi.

          For one, Blackie had no interest in catching it when he could have. Spitfire never saw it.

          Two, Bondi was the one who stood guard.

          Three, if one of the cats had gotten it, Bondi would’ve started barking her fool head off. At least, I think she would.

          Four, it was dead. The cats usually like to torture their prey.

          It’s not all sunshine and rainbows with this little bundle of joy. Mike and I changed the sheets on the bed this week. I toss the dirty ones in a pile on the floor until we’re done. Mike left, I was putting the fresh pillowcases on and saw Bondi climb onto the mountain of sheets on the floor, her nose extended toward her ball which was laying on top. I finished the pillows, reached down, gathered the dirty sheets, and immediately came into contact with warm wetness! Her nose was extended because her back end was down — but I didn’t see the whole picture!

          “Bondi!” I was incredulous. “Bad girl! Outside!” And I ran her out the door.

          I have no idea why she peed on the sheets. I’m just thankful I have a washer.

          And this, my dears, is what’s left after Bondi modifies an earbud.

          Several times over the past few months I’ve caught her with my earbud. I’ll set it down someplace and Blackie’ll knock it to the floor.

          This time, I was too late.

          Turkey.

          Never again will I break a biscuit into pieces for her! There’s obviously nothing wrong with her teeth — or her jaw strength! 

          Speaking of Blackie…

          He had an appointment to get his last kitten shot — and I had a Christmas gift for Dr. Lori. She’s always so good to me. And yeah. I know, it’s late.

Tuesday was blustery and snow-showery. We love seeing the flags fly on the Veteran’s Bridge between Wysox and Towanda.

          “Someone’s on the ice,” I told Mike and snapped a picture through the railings of the bridge. 

          “Will I see Dr. Lori today?” I asked when I called from the parking lot to check in.

          “No. It’s a vet-tech appointment.”

          “Is there any chance I can see Dr. Lori for a moment?” I asked.

          She was taken aback a little. “What’s this about? Something to do with Blackie?”

          “No. It’s personal.”

          “Okay. I’ll ask Dr. Lori and whoever comes out to get Blackie will let you know.”

          When Katelyn came to get him, she said, “Dr. Lori said you can come in.”

          They had me wait in one of the exam rooms and it wasn’t long until Dr. Lori came in.

          “I made you a gift,” I told her and handed her Copper Dreams.

          “Oh! How beautiful! Thank you! How did you make this?” she wanted to know.

          We spent the next few minutes with me telling her it’s cardboard and air-dry clay. Time and paint and love.

          “You could sell these,” she said.

          I grinned. “Really? How much do you think I could get for them?”

          “How much time do you have in it?”

          I never, never even try to keep track of my time. “You never get your time.”

          “Fifteen or twenty anyway,” she thought. “Thank you for sharing your talents with me.”

          “You’re welcome. I’m just glad you like it. And thank you, too, for sharing your talents with us! You care about our pets.”

          And it’s true. Dr. Lori would sooner give up profit then to see an animal go uncared for.

          Even though I didn’t have an appointment to talk about Blackie, we did. Dr. Lori brought him up so I felt free to tell her, “He still stinks.”

She pulled up his chart on the computer. “His fecal came back clean.”

“I know! I can’t believe it! His poop is mushy.”

          “Sometimes, kittens have a rough start in life and their digestive tracks don’t develop properly. Let’s give him a shot of B12. I’ve got some here that was donated, so it won’t cost you anything. And we haven’t wormed him so we can try that, too.”

          After she left to take care of that, I heard one of the girls in the back say, “I don’t smell anything.” I guess he only stinks some of the time, like say, after he poops.

          He got a shot and I left with two different worm medicines to treat different kinds of parasites.

          I took a few more road pictures on the way home. 

          Let’s see…

          Blackie’s a turkey because he wouldn’t go after a mouse.

          Bondi’s a turkey ’cause she chewed up my earbud.

          And Tiger’s a turkey, too.

          We’ve been keeping him and Spitfire in because we love them and don’t want them to get hit on the road. Neither one is happy about it and sometimes get into scraps with each other. I think Tiger’s the instigator most of the time.

          To compensate, I let them go into the wayback or out into the garage.

          Spitfire got his little fanny banned from the wayback because he won’t stay off the ceilings over the house part.

          “We could put a fence up so he can’t get up there,” Mike suggested.

          “Nah. I just won’t let him out there anymore.” Maybe when it’s warmer I’ll relent and put a fence up, but not in this cold. The wayback is unheated.

          So, for weeks Tiger was the only one allowed out there and if Spitfire wanted to be out, he could go in the garage. He’s not happy about that but that’s his best offer.

          Then, one day this week, I hear Tiger at the door. I look and he’s out wanting to come back in.

          “Tiger found a way out of the wayback,” I told Mike. “I’ll look and see if I can see where he’s getting out and we can board it up.”

          I looked and the only hole I found was too small for him to get through. Even so I examined it, thinking if he did manage to squeeze through, he’d’ve left hair behind. There was no yellow fur around the edges of the hole.

          The only other place I thought he could’ve escaped from was an old whistlepig hole. Before we were living here, a groundhog had a den under the wayback. When I was sure he wasn’t home, I let Mike block it up so he couldn’t use it anymore. One day, while I was looking for something in the wayback, the piece of concrete I was standing on collapsed into his den. No jokes about my weight here, please. The sudden drop scared me, but it was only about six or eight inches, and I didn’t get hurt.

          “That’s blocked off,” Mike said when I brought it up. “He couldn’t’ve gotten out through there.”

          “We did that years ago,” I pointed out. “The rocks on the outside have shifted since then. Maybe there’s a hole big enough for him to get out of.”

          I didn’t let Tiger go out there for a few days, no matter how hard he cried.

          “Are you sure, Peg?” Mike asked. “Maybe he scooted out the door when you weren’t paying attention.”

          I considered it. “Possible. There’s one way to find out. Let’s let him go in the back again.”

          I fussed around in the kitchen for a while, keeping an eye on the exit of the groundhog hole, but never saw Tiger come out. I went on to other things and next thing I know, Tiger’s outside standing on the platform of the feral cat house.

          Turkey.

          We’d had snow so I walked around the outside the building thinking I could see tracks where he came out, but mother nature put a kibosh on that. On the sides of the building where there was snow, there were no tracks. On the other side, there was no snow against the building.

          Mike took a look around the wayback. “I think he climbed out one of the soffits.”

          So now he’s banned from the wayback, too. But I don’t feel sorry for either one of them. Our house is big enough they can stay away from each other if they want to.

          Let’s see…

          Blackie’s a turkey because he wouldn’t go after a mouse.

          Bondi’s a turkey ’cause she chewed up my earbud.

          And Tiger’s a turkey because he escaped from the wayback.

          Would you believe we have one more turkey to talk about this week? This time let’s talk about turkey turkey. The kind of turkey leftover from Thanksgiving. I had some of that in my freezer.

          Scrolling through Facebook, since I look at recipes, recipes come up. Grandma’s Chicken Casserole came up and reading through the recipe I saw you could use turkey.

          I bought the cream of chicken soup, the breadcrumbs, the cheese, and even the French-fried onions they said you could substitute for breadcrumbs.

          I happened to be chatting with my sister Phyllis while I was throwing it together. I got out my 9x13 pan, dumped the three cups of turkey in and it didn’t cover the bottom. Maybe I measured wrong. I don’t know. I got out a smaller pan, transferred the turkey, and that looked better.

          “Since my pan is only half the size, should I only use one can of soup?” I asked Phyllis and turned the camera around so she could see.

          “It looks like enough to me. But I think I’d add a can of milk.”

          “It calls for either breadcrumbs or French-fried onions. What do you think about using them both?”

          By way of an answer, she said, “I like French-fried onions.”

          Some dummy, and I won’t say who, was so absorbed in the conversation with her sister, that she didn’t halve the breadcrumbs — and didn’t use the milk Phyllis suggested.

          Sigh.

          It was dry.

We ate it anyway.

“Why didn’t you listen to your sister?” Mike wanted to know.

I should’ve. Cooking and baking is like her superpower.

          The second time I warmed it, I used half a can of milk, and it was still dry.

          We ate it anyway.

          The next and final time I warmed it, I put a whole stinkin’ can of milk in there! By golly, we were gonna get this sucker moist this time!

          And it was good! I also added broccoli to mine.

          I’m looking forward to making it again, now that I know what not to do.

          “Huh?” you say.

          Don’t not listen to your sister and put milk in it.

      

          I know y’all like to see what’s on my craft table. So, let’s head out and check on that.

          If you remember, and even if you don’t, I made a book box with a warped lid.

          “Wet it and put weight on it,” was the advice given to me.

          I did that. And I let it dry for days. When I took the weights off, the lid was flat!

          Yay!

          A few hours later, it looked like it did before. The fix wasn’t permanent.

          Okay. So, failures are a part of learning.

          I’d ordered a mold to make a dreamcatcher with. It shipped on the sixteenth and was due here two days later. It’s lost. Amazon offered me a refund, “But it may still show up,” they said.

          I’m hoping it does.

          So, while I’m waiting to see if it shows up, I decided to make a new box. This time I let my glues dry naturally instead of hurrying them along with a blow dryer. The result is I have a nice flat lid. Now I know what caused my problem.

          Every day I’m hoping the mold will come. And I need to get it done and delivered before my friend needs it.

          “Maybe I can freehand one,” I told Mike. “I can practice on the warped one.” That’s its name now, you know. No matter how it comes out it will forever be known as the Warped One.

          While I’m trying to work it out in my head, I decide to go back to my Cricut. They have a dreamcatcher pattern, but you have to pay for it. However, if you sign up for Cricut All Access you can get it for free. All Access costs ten dollars a month but you get thousands of patterns and it’s free for the first thirty days — cancel anytime. Me being me, I’ll use it for twenty-nine days and cancel. Then I went work making stencils.

          Concentrating on the ones I’d have to pay for once my trial period is over, I made a bunch of pattern stencils. They’re easy. Sure, they’ll look different than using clay and molds, but I think they’ll be fine.

          Then I picked the simplest dreamcatcher pattern and tried to make it.

          Remember what I said about failures?

          “I cut it three times and it’s still wrong!” I cried to Mike. “I don’t think it can be done!”

          I searched You Tube video after You Tube video trying to figure out all the buttons on my Cricut and what they do and how to do what I wanted to do.

          And I cut it again — only to fail again.

          Several times that night I woke up with new ideas to try.

          Maybe I need to do a reverse pattern, I thought and gave that a try.

          I made this.

          I thought I had it. Now I had a frame to hold the plaster of Paris on the outside of the shapes.

          I couldn’t wait to try it!

          I mixed the POP, pulled Warped One in front of me, and gave it try.

          I peel the stencil away and have the exact opposite of what I want.

          I don’t think it can be done.

          “Just order another mold,” Mike tells me.

          I’m afraid I’ll end up with two! Returns are such a pain.

         

          In closing this week, I want to show you what I got in the mail.

          “Who’s that from?” I asked when Mike brought the box in.

          “The kids.”

          Kevin told me I’d be getting a late Christmas gift.

          “I hope it’s a new picture.” There’s not much I need or want but I love seeing their beautiful faces and the family portrait I have of them is a zillion years old. Andrew was a toddler.

          And guess what it was?

          Perfect! Just exactly what I wanted!

        

          Let’s call this one done!