My poem "Fasti" is now online at Heliotrope. It takes place in the same city as my story "Time May Be" (Singing Innocence and Experience), with thanks to Ovid and the Basilica di San Clemente. The rest of this post has nothing to do with the calendar.
I feel rather like Krosp. For the last couple of days, there has been a mouse in our kitchen. Or at least there has been something behind the stove that made scrabbling, skittering, scratchily metallic noises with such intensity that I decided either we had a very dedicated mouse or a beaver was trying to chew through the gas main—on occasion, it was loud enough to keep me awake, and I am sleeping a music room, a bathroom, a dining room, and a tangential portion of the living room away from the kitchen. This mouse was hardcore.
Last night, my mother baked two pear cakes. In the half-hour that they were cooling on the countertop beside the stove, I heard the rustling of tin foil and ran into the kitchen in time to see the mouse dart out from under the foil, off the plate, and back behind the stove. We had to throw out both cakes. They were comfort food for my mother and she had used the last of the pears in the house. This was an act of war. I set a trap with a metal mixing bowl, a pencil stub, three inches of green ribbon, and a fragment of pear cake salvaged from the trash, and went to bed.
In the morning, the bowl was down flat against the counter, but when I tapped it gently, there seemed to be no weight inside. The mouse had nibbled just enough of the cake to trip it, but had escaped in the time it took the bowl to fall. I lack mad cat skillz. Just to be sure before I dismantled the trap and left for my doctor's appointment, I lifted the bowl a fingernail's width from the counter—and a long tail whisked out frantically. I slammed the bowl back down. I had a mouse.
I was fairly surprised. And now I had a mouse to remove from the kitchen. On the assumption that mice, like cats, are infinitely compressible when it comes to narrow spaces provided by incautious humans, I unfolded the lid of a cardboard packing box, slid it underneath the bowl—and now I heard the scrabble of tiny claws so intimately familiar to me from the last few nights—tipped it all gently upside down, and carried the bowlful of mouse outside. I did not want to release it into the lot across the street, where our neighbors grow tomatoes and zucchini, because one of my parents' sadder stories from our old house is the week they trapped the same mouse four times in a row. (My father finally marked it with a spot of paint. They had been taking it out into the backyard, whence it scampered promptly back into the house and started eating the breakfast cereal again.) So I walked this one several blocks down to the path that runs around the Arlington Reservoir, set down the bowl, and lifted away the cardboard. I figured the mouse, which had been scratching busily at the inside of the bowl as I walked, would make a leap for it.
It sat there. It blinked immense bead-black eyes at me. It quivered its whiskers. Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous my left foot. It was in a small safe space with a substantial portion of pear cake—what was it going to run from? I had to rap on the bowl a few times with my nails before it realized I was not providing it with an in-flight snack, and then it bounded away across the grass in a manner I associate more with chipmunks or cartoon skunks than with mice.
From the pictures I took on my phone, it seems to have been a white-footed mouse (Peromyscus leucopus) or a deer mouse (Peromyscus maniculatus). I lean toward the latter, because of the length of the tail, but I was not paying much attention to the finer points of its coloration and the photo quality is terrible; I didn't get a look at its teeth. The point is, it is not currently in my kitchen: and I will set another trap tonight, in case it has cousins it invited in. Or a keen sense of direction. Take that, pear cake thieves. Next time it's honey and poppy seeds for you.
If it returns, however, I am totally naming it P. Decius Mus.
I feel rather like Krosp. For the last couple of days, there has been a mouse in our kitchen. Or at least there has been something behind the stove that made scrabbling, skittering, scratchily metallic noises with such intensity that I decided either we had a very dedicated mouse or a beaver was trying to chew through the gas main—on occasion, it was loud enough to keep me awake, and I am sleeping a music room, a bathroom, a dining room, and a tangential portion of the living room away from the kitchen. This mouse was hardcore.
Last night, my mother baked two pear cakes. In the half-hour that they were cooling on the countertop beside the stove, I heard the rustling of tin foil and ran into the kitchen in time to see the mouse dart out from under the foil, off the plate, and back behind the stove. We had to throw out both cakes. They were comfort food for my mother and she had used the last of the pears in the house. This was an act of war. I set a trap with a metal mixing bowl, a pencil stub, three inches of green ribbon, and a fragment of pear cake salvaged from the trash, and went to bed.
In the morning, the bowl was down flat against the counter, but when I tapped it gently, there seemed to be no weight inside. The mouse had nibbled just enough of the cake to trip it, but had escaped in the time it took the bowl to fall. I lack mad cat skillz. Just to be sure before I dismantled the trap and left for my doctor's appointment, I lifted the bowl a fingernail's width from the counter—and a long tail whisked out frantically. I slammed the bowl back down. I had a mouse.
I was fairly surprised. And now I had a mouse to remove from the kitchen. On the assumption that mice, like cats, are infinitely compressible when it comes to narrow spaces provided by incautious humans, I unfolded the lid of a cardboard packing box, slid it underneath the bowl—and now I heard the scrabble of tiny claws so intimately familiar to me from the last few nights—tipped it all gently upside down, and carried the bowlful of mouse outside. I did not want to release it into the lot across the street, where our neighbors grow tomatoes and zucchini, because one of my parents' sadder stories from our old house is the week they trapped the same mouse four times in a row. (My father finally marked it with a spot of paint. They had been taking it out into the backyard, whence it scampered promptly back into the house and started eating the breakfast cereal again.) So I walked this one several blocks down to the path that runs around the Arlington Reservoir, set down the bowl, and lifted away the cardboard. I figured the mouse, which had been scratching busily at the inside of the bowl as I walked, would make a leap for it.
It sat there. It blinked immense bead-black eyes at me. It quivered its whiskers. Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous my left foot. It was in a small safe space with a substantial portion of pear cake—what was it going to run from? I had to rap on the bowl a few times with my nails before it realized I was not providing it with an in-flight snack, and then it bounded away across the grass in a manner I associate more with chipmunks or cartoon skunks than with mice.
From the pictures I took on my phone, it seems to have been a white-footed mouse (Peromyscus leucopus) or a deer mouse (Peromyscus maniculatus). I lean toward the latter, because of the length of the tail, but I was not paying much attention to the finer points of its coloration and the photo quality is terrible; I didn't get a look at its teeth. The point is, it is not currently in my kitchen: and I will set another trap tonight, in case it has cousins it invited in. Or a keen sense of direction. Take that, pear cake thieves. Next time it's honey and poppy seeds for you.
If it returns, however, I am totally naming it P. Decius Mus.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}