“…Cats kill because they enjoy it.”
MyEx. She’s quite the salesperson when she wants to be. She was never able to sell me on divorce, but I can’t deny her problem solving skills. Who needs late night infomercial solutions when MyEx is on speed dial? Right now, I’m considering my latest problem. Yesterday I threw out a box of granola bars because my cupboard mouse couldn’t find the one that was just right. He’s like that one aunt who ruins a box of chocolates by denture diving for the coconut cream.
Granola isn’t all I had to throw away. I also had to toss 3 packages of spaghetti and a Costco bag of rice that MyEx and I bought before we married. When she left I got custody of the rice, she kept the pony keg of olive oil. I didn’t mind, I only got to rub her down with it once. After I started sautéing the garlic, she never let me do it again.
“Hey! Hey! Hey! You’re a sick man Mr. Boyd!”
She said that, but she’s also the one who wanted to line the lawn with little Jesus heads on pikes for the Jehovah’s Witnesses. She was gonna fill the skulls with olive oil and light them on fire.
“I just want to send a message.”
“You just want to scare the neighbors.”
“Well that’s just a bonus gift.”
MyEx is a private person. She likes her socializing like she likes her coffee: alone and in silence. Because of this party gene, MyEx is a great pragmatist. She cuts through the carcass fat and skewers the meat of the matter.
That’s why I called her. I needed a reliable answer. I’d told a friend that I was buying a cat to eliminate my mouse problem. That friend suggested I get a mouser.
“As opposed to a piano player?”
“Not all cats catch mice, you know.”
“Of course I know.” I don’t know.
Actually I do know. The two cats that adopted MyEx and I refused to catch mice. Mice were beneath them. One cat refused to chase anything bigger than a cricket, and the other would point to mice like a where’s Waldo puzzle, but chasing…well, that was a little to much effort.
Still their presence kept the mice away, leaving the cats to play piano. They were quite good really. They knew all kinds of instruments and had a preference for strings. On special nights, hey diddle diddle could they ever fiddle.
Now that there are no cats in the house, the mice are playing, and they suck. They’ve eaten my food, and when I lay traps, they won’t touch them. What’s more, now they’re taunting me (the mice, not the traps). This morning I got up, and there were little mouse poo-pellets in my slippers.
Rat bastards.
Now I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more. My friend who suggested I get a mouser wasn’t as much help when it came to picking one.
“You know how to find a mouser, right Rob?”
“No, how?”
“Their mother needs to be a mouser. They learn it from her.”
“Uhm, I’m going to the animal shelter to adopt one. Most of those kitties aren’t there with their mother.”
“Well just ask the attendants. I’m sure they know.”
How would they know that? Do mousers have little mousy tattoos on their belly for each kill? Maybe when you pick them up you can see little mouse balls…I dunno. I asked another friend about it.
“Mouser? That sounds like a dirty joke.”
“It is. I’m sorry. I’m just rude.” What could I say? She had an excuse: She was hopped up on a Nyquil/Tequila Toddy. I could have asked her how to make mud and she’d have given me the same answer.
“Make mud? That sounds like a dirty joke.”
“It is. I’m sorry. I’m just rude.”
When I can’t make a kill, I turn to my one source of murderous truth: MyEx. Say what you will about her (I know I do), but she knows dark things.
“How long does it take to saw through a femur with a hand saw?”
“Two hours.”
“Thanks.”
See? She knows the dark like the back of her wand.
So I emailed her.
“How many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie-pop?”
“Is the tongue attached or severed?”
“Nevermind, I’m looking into buying a mouser.”
“Cat or dog?”
I paused. I hadn’t really thought of a dog. I mean, I’m not looking to replace Cosmo. I just need a mouser. Still some dogs are really good at that. Maybe I do want a dog. “What’s the difference?”
“Dogs are loyal and friendly. They kill because they want to please you. Cats are independent. Cats kill because they enjoy it.”
“Oh, that’s easy. A cat then.”
Now I’m off to buy a cat. Look out little poo-in-shoe mousy, this time it’s personal.
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