Remembering the Feast

Because I went away for the holiday, this year I do not have leftovers.

Leftovers may be my favorite part of Thanksgiving, because it is a way to have all that delicious food again . . . in a good way. There is something about the more humble pleasure of leftovers that taste even a little better, because it is the pleasure of tasting the food AND ALSO the pleasure of remembering the initial feast.

So I am hungry for leftovers. Fortunately, I have saved a blog post that will serve as my "leftovers."

You may recall that I had an earlier post in which I referenced something about a phone call and cats and a mouse and dancing and chases and a feast. Or maybe you don't recall that, but I promised at the time that it would require another post. This is that "another post."

The week before Thanksgiving, I was on the phone discussing horse racing matters with a friend in California, relaxing on the sofa. It occurred to me that Shiva and Paxil were nowhere to be seen. I wasn't really thinking about them, because I was having a conversation. But even as I carried on the conversation, one corner of my brain was remembering how intently they seemed to be studying the wall in the dining room thirty minutes ago. And they seem to be down in the basement now. And, oh, yeah, it's November isn't it--when the field mice begin looking for winter lodgings. Hmmm.

Last winter, I had counted on three cats in residence curbing the mouse population. But it didn't work. The mice came in. The cats were fascinated by them, followed their scent trails everywhere, spent hours in the cabinets where the mice had been. Never caught a mouse. I would trap mice in live traps, but never see any evidence that a cat had caught one.

For about six months, when in springtime something seemed to kick in. It was just about the time that I learned that there is a parasite that lives in cats, that can transfer to other species--like humans and mice, where it triggers behavioral changes. Studies show that mice with this parasite engage in more risk-taking behavior, thereby becoming a source of cat food, returning the parasite to his natural host. So maybe it took my cats six months to learn how to hunt mice . . . or maybe it took that long for them to infect the mice and make them self-destructive. Who knows?

But now I was in the living room and my cats were suspiciously pre-occupied in the basement.

And then just as I became aware of that, they weren't any more. Here they were in fact. Sauntering into the living room like two overly innocent adolescent boys. Here came Shiva first, diffident, rather unconcerned, stretching out on the rug. And there just half a dozen steps behind, adopting a mask of clueless innocence was Paxil himself. He contemplated Shiva, who rolled on his back, and then thought better of starting a mock fight. Instead, he wandered aimlessly to the foot of the stairs. If he had lips, I am sure from his walk, he would have whistled, that's how much he was exaggerating his nonchalance.

By now, my efforts at conversation were a bit strained, because something seemed definitely up. And then, that quickly it became clear what was up. What was up was the little four-legged brown-and-white risk-taking moron that came bouncing into the room, tail in the air, not so much running as bouncing stiff-legged in little addle-pated rodent ballet moves, squeaking madly as he pursued the cats who had abandoned him down in the basement.

He scurried over to where I was on the sofa, swung around past Shiva, provoking that one to get to his feet and follow and bounced straight over to Paxil.

Still talking on the phone, I--without even thinking--rose to follow Shiva toward where the mouse was now taunting Paxil. The closest thing I had to a thought was "I can prevent bloodshed and carnage if I can open the door and get him to go out without letting the cats pursue him."

By the time I completed that thought, I was clear-headed enough to realize that I did not WANT the mouse to get away, because he would just come back in. And, after all, I kind of want my cats to eat my mice. I guess.

What only dawned on me later was how perfectly our little ecosystem had built a little image that must have looked like some sort of crazy Pied Piper in reverse: human following cat, following cat, pursuing mad, dancing mouse.

But all this happened quickly. Dumb, dense, innocent Paxil didn't need a mouse to hurl himself at him twice. Or if he did, this must have been the second time. Because the next thing I knew, Paxil--looking a bit like he does in that stalking photo above--had a mouse in his mouth and was headed for the basement. Shiva was in pursuit.

I gave up and went back to my sofa and my phone conversation. By the time I finished it and hung up, both cats had returned upstairs. Upon investigation, I discovered a little bit of mouse entrails left behind on the basement floor. Upstairs, Paxil and Shiva were each grooming themselves and looking smug. This was their Thanksgiving feast, and recalling it will have to suffice as my leftovers.