There’s a mouse in the house. Scott spotted it in the porch this morning and, while trying to corner it, chased it down the stairs. It’s now hiding somewhere in the basement … which is where I sleep.

Grandma's cat has been sent for. As soon as Everett got out of bed, he went out to the barn to inform Ralph* of his mission: catch and destroy that rodent. Everett was set to work hauling up, from under the stairs where our storage room is, all food that is not encased in glass or tin. Even the flour, the salad dressings, the honey, all in their plastic containers. Mice can chew through plastic. Ralph the cat kept a close eye on things, tail twitching.

I am considering putting elastics around the ankles of my blue jeans, as Dad jokingly suggested when he phoned. I’d completely forgotten to make my usual morning call to him – other things on my mind, donchaknow. “Look on the bright side,” he said. “It’s not a tiger.”

I know, I know … the mouse has more reason to be nervous than I do. It’s soon to die a dastardly death. Still, I will not be able to go barefoot or barelegged till it’s gone.

How did it get in, we wonder. Scott always worries about the door being open too long while Emil stands there saying his goodbyes in the morning 10 times. He thinks if there’s a mouse on the deck it will dash right in, past Emil’s feet. I think that’s a bit ridiculous but he’s sure it’s a real possibility. I don’t know. I’ve never seen a mouse do that. Maybe Scott has.

You know we are freaked out when we’ve let a cat into our home! We love cats and dogs, but live on a farm and so can enjoy them outside and don't have to have them (and their hair) floating around the kitchen and laying in wait on the furniture. But I intend to cuddle him up good while he’s in here. And is he ever happy, himself. Didn’t stop talking for the first half-hour. I didn't understand his foreign language but I’m sure it was all “This is great, it’s about time, where’s the food? Ooh, nice and warm. What mouse? Lord but this couch is soft. Pet me. Who'll pet me first? Get in line. Finally, my rightful place. Took you guys long enough.”

And then, to banjo accompaniment, there is this little ditty I can imagine Ralph singing gaily:

"Love them little mousies
Mousies what I love to eat
Bite they little heads off
Nibble on they tiny feet...."

* Grandma called him Blackie, but Scott renamed him because he has this deep "raaalf" instead of a high-pitched voice like most cats; he is part Himalayan, maybe that's where it comes from

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