Kitty Cornered by Bob Tarte

Author:Bob Tarte
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Non-Fiction, Humour
ISBN: 9781565129993
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2012-04-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

The War Between the Cats

Having made her point about independence, and also having realized that a cardboard box makes a comfier bed than a patch of ice, Frannie stayed indoors during the final weeks of winter. And what icky weeks they were.

One early morning after a particularly hearty snowfall, I was pulling the covers off our birdcages when something crashed into the window. I zipped outdoors with a flashlight and discovered a screech owl huddled in our spruce tree. This had happened once before. Holes here and there in the snow suggested an explanation. Instead of skittering around in the open with bull’s-eyes on their backs, the local mice were safely making their rounds via tunnels in the snow. With rodents off the menu, the owl must have decided that a pet parakeet or dove would do.

The mice didn’t like the winter weather any better than the owl. As the snow piled up over the next several days, the mice piled inside our house. I realized that the situation was worse than usual when Linda told me that she’d heard squeaks coming from the plant stand in the dining room.

“They must be coming from inside the walls,” I said.

“No, they’re coming from the plant stand.”

I didn’t hear a thing, and Linda’s excavation of her pencil plant, Christmas cactus, aloe vera, and Moses-in-the-Bulrushes failed to uncover evidence of a hidden mouse civilization.

The next day she said, “I’m definitely hearing baby mice.” She pressed her nose against our boom box that sat in front of Moses. “Pew. They’ve got a nest in there.”

I refused to believe it until I turned the boom box around and sniffed a small round opening that supposedly enhanced bass response. One whiff of eau de rodent convinced me to retire the boom box to the barn.

“That cost me ninety-eight dollars,” I said. “Now I need to buy a new one.”

“You need to get a live trap, too.”

AS SPRING SPUTTERED in and the house mouse population continued to increase, Frannie began lobbying for a dash into the woods not only for the mud that she could track across our carpet but also to get away from Agnes. Instead of helping us with the vermin invasion, our black cat was doing everything she could to keep Frannie from settling in.

Agnes had never shown the slightest interest in the front porch. But suddenly, racing down the basement stairs to score a spoonful of Tastes-Like-Meat was passé. Now, the greatest epicurean delight resided in the bowl of kibbles in front of Frannie’s box.

Agnes would wait until I let Frannie inside to spend time actively avoiding us. That was Agnes’ cue to saunter out to the porch and loudly crunch on Frannie’s food. She never chomped down more than two or three bites on any visit, boldly daring Frannie to do anything about it. When she tired of this, she would sit on the back of the couch and then fling herself at Frannie when The Little Kitty came out from behind the entertainment center.

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