Catastrophe

Harley is a beauty. No, I’m not talking about a motorcycle (although I do have this life goal of riding a motorcycle before I die, just not sequentially); I’m talking about my cat, Harlequin, or Harley for short. She is of the tortoiseshell breed, which means she’s black, crème, and light brown. Like I said, she’s beautiful. Damn cat knows it too! So when I cooed at her and told her she was gorgeous I thought I was just stroking her ego. Apparently I was wrong.

Harley was just so happy with my praise that she sauntered off the bed. At the time I didn’t really notice that I had been left. I was far too busy watching a “Project Runway Season Three” marathon on Bravo. When commercial break came I started to get up in search of a soda when Harley jumped back on the bed, a mouse dangling from her mouth. Harley often likes to distribute such presents when we have pleased her greatly.

There was my cat, pale green eyes glowing with pride; a cobweb sweeping from the tips of her whiskers like an elegant scarf. But what caught my attention was the pale brown mouse between Harley’s sparkling teeth. My middle name is Elizabeth, not Grace, so needless to say I freaked out. In true housewife fashion I screamed, “Oh my God!” over and over again in my highest pitch in the hopes that the messiah himself would come down and handle my plight. No such luck.

Instead, Harley dropped the mouse in fright of my frantic screaming. It moved. Moved is not so much an accurate description—it scrambled. I THOUGHT IT WAS DEAD!!!!!!! On one hand I happy for Stuart Little’s distant relation, on the other I am now in the middle of a literal cat and mouse chase. I tucked my knees under my chin and screamed louder because, you know, that really helps. Meanwhile The Mouse is rushing across the duvet cover trying to find a way off the bed. Harley, no longer in shock over my rejection, pounced on it (she’s de-clawed, so it helps the mouse’s odds a little). She sprang back and The Mouse went racing again. This time the little guy found the end of the bed. Faced with the decision of Harley’s jaws and what to the mouse must have looked like a huge leap, the mouse jumped, spread-eagled, on to the laundry pile. Not having seen the landing myself, I still would have given the little guy a nine on diving form alone.

At this point the soundtrack that had been on loop (my cries of “Oh my God! Oh my God!) finished with a shriek that faded much like an ambulance siren. Harley, having lost her quarry and temporarily my affection, sent a severely pissed off glare my way and stormed out of the room in a huff. I convinced myself that I had to see about The Mouse. Shaking slightly, I crawled to the end of the bed. The Mouse had disappeared. The entire event took about two minutes to occur, as well as taking twenty years off my life.

I am grateful for two things here. One that the little fella may have survived—Harley may be beautiful but I prefer not to think of her as a femme fatal. And two that it was not my bedroom that The Mouse escaped into. This has to be one of the only moments where I have been glad that my room does not have a TV like my mom’s. That’s right folks a mouse is now loose in my mother’s room. I can’t wait to tell her that little tidbit. For now, I’m just tiptoeing through the house and staying the hell away from Mom’s room. You know, I’m trying to give the little guy space.