Mice--the OTHER White Meat...

Two nights ago, my husband and I were returning from a quick-but-nice dinner out. Nothing fancy, just a trip down to the local Subway. We were full and satisfied, and the thought of a warm snuggly blanket and a good tv show sounded like the winning ticket for the evening.

Little did we know...

We arrived back at the farm just as twilight was falling. Yes, twilight...that time between day and night when the farm is settling down to go to sleep and the stars are coming out to shine. As we rounded the corner into the driveway, all seemed normal--the faint ribbons of peach, rose, and lavender fading from the sky. The noisy opening of the gate drew the attention of the yard beasts, and as we pulled our truck into its space and clicked the gate shut, we were greeted by a terrier, a sheep, and a deer. They knew. It was the blue and white styrofoam cup that gave it away. Each time we humans come home with that cup, it can only mean one thing: BISCUITS!! So I gingerly unwrapped the precious offering so as not to allow the napkins to be eaten as well, and divided the treat into three equal parts. With each beastie happily munching a mouthful of starch, we proceeded to the door.

Funny, I didn't remember the cat being a part of that raiding party.
Nonetheless, there he was, sitting at the threshold of the door not-so-quietly crunching on something. "Jaaaaaaack...?", I said with a question in my voice. He didn't move. He just continued to crunch--faster and faster so as not to miss anything should I shoo him away. Now, being a bit smarter than I look, I curbed the impulse to reach down and brush him out of the way to see what he had. No, I opted to use my foot to gently lift his chest out of the way.

Smart move.

As his fur cleared my line of sight, there it was in all its glory: a headless mouse. And NOT a small one, either. The cat looked up at me, meowed, licked his chops, and dove back in. Suddenly, I heard the theme music from the original movie, "Psycho", playing in my head. With visions of opening the door and the cat streaking in with mouse in jowls to hide just out of reach under the dining table to finish his banquet, I looked at my husband and said, "Gee, honey, why don't we go in the back door tonight." As we turned and rounded the end of the house, he wondered under his breath whether or not our cat was really a zombie disguised as a farm inhabitant. Probably not, he decided, or Jack would have been chewing on our heads long before this.

In my previous life, this sight would have caused me uncontrollable nausea and creeping flesh for hours. Now? Ha. It's a sight I take in stride. Farm cats, you see, provide a very valuable service. Had the cat not caught him, hat headless mouse could have made his way into my kitchen to hide in nooks and crannies and munch on any crumb we may have missed. I could have run onto him in the middle of the night as I stumbled in the darkness to find a sip of water. It's better that it happened this way. Cat doing his job, mouse losing the war.

It's all in a day's work for Jack, our farm cat.

Bottled Water is E-vil!

Allow me to first set the record straight. Although I am acutely aware of the need to recycle, our responsibility as stewards of the earth, and the aesthetic value of a clean environment, I am NOT an over-the-top eco-vigilante.

Now, I may not be, but that is not so much the case with at least one of our farm inhabitants.

You see, yesterday morning, in the early predawn hours as I finished loading my vehicle for the weekly trip to the farmer's market, I absent-mindedly set a case of bottled water onto the running board of our 1947 Chevy farm truck. "No harm, no foul," I thought.

Au contraire!

For, as my tail lights disappeared around the curve of the driveway, a figure stalked out of the shadows to right a grievous wrong. Seymour, it turns out, abhors cases of water bottles. They are evil, it seems, and I didn't know it. He, being such an insightful guardian, was ever-watchful--protecting us from the potential hazards of an all-out plastic attack.

So, with antlers in place, he proceeded to destroy the suspect plastic and cardboard packaging, scattering the individual bottles far and wide over the front yard. Not meaning to merely wound--but to kill the invader in its tracks--Seymour went so far as to skewer several of the bottles and leave them lying to bleed their precious contents onto the ground. Upon my return home early in the afternoon, I was greeted by the sight of the ever-vigilant deer lying in the front yard, watching to be sure none of the survivors made a break for it. And, while I quietly procured a couple of plastic shopping bags, Seymour was there at my heels to poke at the quickly-growing cargo, lest it escape and wreak havoc on our little hamlet.

What a guy.

We can always count on Seymour. Whether it be a wicked case of water bottles or a malevolent cardboard shipping box insidiously placed in his domain by the suspect UPS driver, he has our backs.

We can sleep soundly knowing that while "something wicked this way [may] come", Seymour will stop it before its foul agenda can be accomplished.