Specifically, the  mice have not just been eating, but stealing the cats’ food while they lie mere feet away.

And hiding it here.

For a week or so I’d been aware a mouse or mice were eating the cats’ [...]]]> No, actually, even with the cats right there, the mice disport themselves quite freely, thank you very much.

Specifically, the  mice have not just been eating, but stealing the cats’ food while they lie mere feet away.

And hiding it here.

For a week or so I’d been aware a mouse or mice were eating the cats’ food. It happened when I was awakened in the wee hours by the tunking of one of Squeak’s metal food bowls in their rack on my dresser beside the bed (I keep her and TJ’s bowls up there to discourage the ever-ravenous Emma Dog from committing grave offenses against her pack superiors.) The problem was, I quickly realized Squeak herself was lying in her usual spot next to me on the bed.

I got a flashlight from the nightstand drawer and shone it at the dresser. A mouse face peered at me over the top of the food bowl.

Squeak never so much as glanced up.

I tried moving the food bowl away from the bookcase, so that the mouse would have a greater distance to cross in the open, in hopes that, a) it would give Squeak a better opportunity to intercept the damned thing; and b) failing that, make the mouse more afraid Squeak might intercept it.

For a while that seemed to help. Unfortunately, the mouse seems to have realized the cats are completely freaking useless.

So last night I heard the sound again, quite persistently, right when I was trying to go to sleep. Once more, Squeak was snoozed out blissfully beside me. Out came the flashlight.

This time I saw the damned mouse darting out from behind the bookshelf to seize a piece of cat food from the bowl and then dash back behind it. A couple seconds later it reappeared, and did it again.

Stealing the cats’ food. Stealing it! While the cats, intrepid and inescapable predators that they are, dozed just a few feet away.

I bodily picked Squeak up and set her on the dresser. She couldn’t be bothered to do anything. So to try to rout out the mouse I went and checked behind the bookshelf.

And I saw the sight pictured above.

I moved the bookshelf slightly to flush out the mouse. It had already disappeared, probably behind the dresser. And I realized the back of the bookshelf was open at the bottom.

So I moved it farther out from the wall -

- and this is what to my wondering eyes did appear.

Holy crap! That is a boatload of kitty crunchies!

One thing you can say for the mouse: persistent little bugger, yes?

For a little perspective as to just how close the scene of the crime is to its victims:

TJ usually sleeps at the foot of the bed. Squeak likes to sleep in front on the proppy-pillow thing at the left hand side of the picture. It’s maybe four feet from there to her bowl. If she wanted, she could easily spring from where she lies right onto the damn mouse and slay it.

If she could be, you know, bothered.

So what I did was sweep up the large amount of food and put it back in the sealed container I keep at dresser’s end to refill Squeak’s bowls.

I’ve tried to think of schemes to put an end to the mouse, or at least its depredations. I have a few ideas. But I have to admit that, little use as I have for mice in general, I’ve gained a sneaking admiration for this one.   I felt bad enough negating all his (or her) effort by raiding its cache. Not to mention its sheer ballsiness.

And that’s why I didn’t get a good night’s sleep again last night. The end.

So, many mornings Squeak comes onto the bed and demands that I roll onto my back and let her either perch or lie on my chest. Which, generally, I do. Then I pet her some and sort of fold my hands [...]]]> No, not the Heinlein flat cats from The Rolling Stones. Just our problem child Squeak.

So, many mornings Squeak comes onto the bed and demands that I roll onto my back and let her either perch or lie on my chest. Which, generally, I do. Then I pet her some and sort of fold my hands across her and drift back off to sleep. Despite the fact that in general I try to stay off my back when I sleep – in fact my quality of life improved noticeably about two months ago when I figured out a way to prevent myself rolling on my back, which is a subject for another post – I usually drop right back in and sleep well with Squeaky on me. Maybe it has to do with her purring.

more animals

(I love this stuff. Deal.)

Any event, last night I was up way late despite still being kind of worn out by the previous few days (even a fairly major slam home-repair project which my inestimable and in all ways splendid friend Larry did most of the work on. Again.) Something to do with the fact that after I finished a chapter of Dinosaur Lords and discovered I’d erased some stuff I shouldn’t ought’ve, I discovered the software I was using to sync my thumb drive with my notebook was corrupting the files it stored. Serious bummer. Fortunately I’ve other backup means. Not so fortunately implementing them took a while. Anybody know any decent file-synching software for USB drives? Preferably one with crypto?

As a result of all this merriment and high living I slept pretty well. And lo!, sometime after the sun came up I awakened to discover Squeak had fallen back on Plan B: when she couldn’t rouse me to roll onto my back, she clambered onto my upper shoulder, the right one, and lay down there. So I obligingly rolled over and dozed back off.

Until I was awakened by a curious phenomenon. Usually Squeak will lie down with her little black snub-nosed face near mine, retaining your usual basic cylindrical cat body shape. (Occasionally she just sits there. This is because she’s nuts.) But not this time. This time she had undergone the full-on Feline Voluntary Skeletal Dissolution. Except for the hard little head she was snuggling up under my chin.

It was astonishing. The comparison that kept going through my head was to a tire patch – I think my subconscious was grinding on inner-tube patches. She was, well, flat.

She’d roll on her side.. Flat. Onto her back: still flat. At one point she decided to move and drape herself artfully side by side over my stomach. Where she resembled a discarded black dish towel.

She’s never done any of that before. I kept waking up just because it amuse the hell out of me. Even after she woke up, restored integrity to her internal structure, and jumped onto the dresser to stuff her face, I kept awakening and laughing at her all over.

And now I’ve inflicted the little tale on you. There’s no point to it. Like life.

Facts you may not give a poot about but I’m telling you anyway: Squeak’s real name is Mia Antoinette, Red For Short. “Red” isn’t her nickname; “Red For Short” is part of her actual name. Odds are good you’ll have to suffer through that story too, at some point in the future. Meditate and prepare for your ordeal.

Recommended reading:

Mirabile dictu, Baen is reissuing The Rolling Stones in paperback in March. Convenient, eh? Anyway, if you’ve read it your copy is probably falling apart and you need a replacement; and if you haven’t you’d do yourself a favor by checking it out. It’s one of the famous “Heinlein juveniles,” which means awesome. For adults (chronologically at least) as well as kiddos.

As always, if you choose, no pressure, to (pre)order it using the above link, you’ll be supporting me and this site. So the odds will be greatly reduced I’ll have to turn Squeak out to a life of shame on the streets, and shop Emma around to do contract wet work. Not that she wouldn’t likely enjoy that way too much.

Around 7 AM here in Casa Milán several things tend to happen at once. I need to get up and go offload fluids. Emma Dog wants to go outside, for approximately the same reason. And Squeak, my deranged and adored black cat, decides she has to [...]]]> Well, not exactly. But close. That much is literally true.

Around 7 AM here in Casa Milán several things tend to happen at once. I need to get up and go offload fluids. Emma Dog wants to go outside, for approximately the same reason. And Squeak, my deranged and adored black cat, decides she has to lie on my chest and be cuddled.

I may have mentioned this before: how she’ll come and stand with her front feet on my shoulder, by way of demanding that I roll onto my back so she can settle in. If that doesn’t work she’ll hop all the way up and perch there. Sometimes that won’t work either, and I’ll awaken later to find her lying asleep on my upper shoulder. Which I find sweet and amusing (if I wasn’t a Pet Mark Squeak would’ve met an awful end long since.)

So this morning I got a new wrinkle. I put out Emma, then came back in and lay down on my right side hoping to get a couple minutes’ sleep before Emma decides she has to come in. I find that the longer I stay awake under such circumstances the harder it is to get back to sleep, so every little bit helps.

Anyway, I’d hardly gotten settled in when here came Squeak. Who promptly reared back and planted her forepaws on my left ear.

“Squeak,” I said. “You’re standing on my head.”

(“Why, yes, Daddy. How nice of you to notice!”)

So I duly rolled over, picking her up and planting her on my sternum in the process. I put my hands over her and we both drifted off to sleep. At least until Emma barked outside the window shortly thereafter…

I hope the cat doesn’t make a habit of that. She’s heavy.

Maybe that’s part of it. Tales about TJ and Squeak have tails, that reach back a dozen years. Emma’s been with us [...]]]> When I’ve blogged about my animals it’s mostly been about Emma. I’m not sure why. Much as I love her, the cats and I are bonded much closer. We’ve got a lot more history.

Maybe that’s part of it. Tales about TJ and Squeak have tails, that reach back a dozen years. Emma’s been with us just going on four. Her stories are simpler.

Anyway, I was just sitting and going through my morning ritual of trying to get my brain to come on, always a significant undertaking. Currently it consists of doing some joint-mobilization moves and exercises, which I’d done, and then sitting on the couch drinking cocoa and reading Terry Pratchett Discworld novels.

Squeak, whose real name is Mia Antoinette, Red for Short (that’s all her name; no one’s ever called her “Red” for any reason whatsoever. See what I mean about backstory?) appeared on the back of the sofa at my left shoulder. She’s a gleaming black cat with auburn undercoat and a few stray white hairs which she’s always had, and eyes that range from amber to baleful yellow-green. She’s also a bit porky. She’s basically a black Siamese.

Anyway, she started dabbing tentatively at my left shoulder. This means she wants to lie on my chest and be cuddled. The problem was she couldn’t find an angle she liked to get into that position. Fortunately she’s not inclined to just launch herself and hope things settle out, which would almost certainly end in my getting numerous thin cuts sliced down my chest and belly by her claws.

So I picked her up and put her on my chest. At which, naturally, she put her ears back and bitched me right out. Then she settled down and began to purr happily.

(Some people who call themselves scientists claim, or at least used to claim, to doubt that purring in cats signifies happiness and contentment. Now, like many mammal behaviors it can probably mean many things. But people who doubt whether cats purr when they’re happy make me wonder if they’ve ever actually known any. Given the demeanor of a lot of these people, I’ve kind of come to hope they haven’t, if you know what I mean.)

Some people also thinks cats are aloof – which brings me back to the above. Or with somewhat more evidence that they’re treacherous or conniving. Now, anything mammalian with a brain larger than a pea connives and is sneaky; despite their reputation for goofy forthrightness dogs are really sneaky little devils, just like the wolves they sprang from.

But Squeak isn’t treacherous. She’s loving and indeed deeply loyal to her loved ones. She just operates on her own system of logic. Which doesn’t necessarily relate to the system by which the rest of the Universe operates.

Specifically: she wanted on my chest. She did not specifically desire that I pick her up. Therefore I committed a vile misdeed by picking her up. I consider myself lucky she’s mellowed; in her younger days she might’ve taken a slash at me. The fact that she ended up precisely where she wanted to be – curled up purring on my chest – simply doesn’t enter consideration.

See?

It’s all so simple. If you’re Squeak. This may also go a way to help you understand why I (and near friends of the family) consider TJ a great saint because he hasn’t killed her.

Of which more later.