Talpidae and Muridae

It might sound like a Shakespearean play, but it's actually the fuzzy infestation happening over here. One night this week, while reading in bed, I heard violent squeaking and rushed downstairs to discover that Charlie (aka Charles Manson) had discovered a mole.

What a mole was doing in the house, at night, I don't know. Running is certainly not the answer. Moles on a hardwood floor are less like pedestrians and more like curling stones, especially when an overzealous cat is involved. Fortunately, he found his way into the bottom of a milk crate of things set out for my brother, and I managed to carry him outside. Unlike mice, who are always looking for opportunities to escape, moles are actually very like Kenneth Graham's Mole: well-meaning, but not quick-witted. He stayed in the bottom of the milk crate, obligingly shifting out of my way as I removed every single object, and then he left by a hole in the side. I sort of liked thinking that after he hurried home, breathless and rattled, he slipped into a smoking jacket, propped his little webby feet on an ottoman, and had a cup of tea to soothe his nerves. He's rehomed now, snug under the brick walk, and probably working on his sequel to The Wind in the Willows as we speak. Written long hand on thick paper with a fountain pen, of course.

My husband actually asked me in all seriousness the next day if it could have been a vole. It was midnight, it was freezing, and I was standing on the porch in nothing but clogs and a fleece jacket, hoping no one was out and and about. I'm not sure whether I was more insulted that he'd think I wouldn't know the difference or that he actually expected me to have taken a closer look in that condition. While I always wanted to be as dignified and together as Badger, I'm afraid that I'm more like the washerwoman....

And today, after finishing my lunch, I noticed the cats starring at the bottom of my knitting basket. When cats stay awake long enough to do anything other than pester me, it's worth paying attention to. Anyway, they had cornered a mouse, who, when I moved the basket, darted around to the other side of the couch. While I went to empty my mouse-catching box (it's filled up after months of disuse), he managed to attempt an escape between the baseboards and the floor. I say attempt, because what he really ended up doing was getting his head quite firmly stuck. Panicked AND undignified, a combination I try to avoid, but then again, see previous mole-related exploits. He's taken up residence under the outhouse, hopefully consoling himself with some week-old asiago cheese bread that I put out as an apology for the rough treatment he received as our guest.

Honestly, I'm beginning to feel like a low-rent Marlin Perkins over here!