A couple of weeks ago, having popped a melatonin, book in hand, and about to drift off, there was a noise—a squeak, rather—from the general direction of the living room. D and I looked at each other. “A mouse,” I said. He was doubtful and waved toward the outside world where all sorts of things make all sorts of noises. But then, the unmistakable sound of little cat feet in chase mode. Up and out, into the next room where, yes indeedy, a tiny mouse (is that an oxymoron?) was surrounded by Desi and Lucille who, while not baring their teeth, were playfully(?) batting at it as if lobbing a shuttlecock back and forth on a well-groomed lawn wearing Polo shirts, chinos, and loafers. While there was no net and the mouse was only airborne because it was attempting to avoid their paws, D took the opportunity to grab a pan and plop it over the wee creature, then slide a magazine underneath for transport out of doors. If you’d seen a half-dressed man out on a dark porch at 10 p.m. telling a small rodent to “RUN. And go tell your friends this place is not friendly,” then you’d have been a part of our world. The cats were not exactly indignant, but they did appear disappointed that we couldn’t appreciate what they were trying to accomplish for us. Or rather, were disappointed we didn’t let them carry on with their mission of hunting, then presenting us with the prize. But we did appreciate what they had done: Flushing the little fella out so we could set it free. They were following their vocation.

Last Sunday, we came home to find a couple of their favorite playthings lined up on the floor. A larger-than-life-fish (thank you, my friend J, who sent it to them years ago and it remains a favorite) and a mouse, which I thought was one of the stuffed ones they like to maul. But as I bent over to pick it up, I realized that au contraire, while it was lifeless, it had in fact been (recently?) very much alive. Apparently, the OG set-free mouse hadn’t done a very good job of spreading the word that our house not only had zero blocks of cheese left out in the open but also housed two cats who loved nothing better than to chase and kill them. Perhaps that OG mouse had run all the way to New Hampshire, unable to speak. Or maybe it was the same mouse that had boundary issues, adrenaline problems, and perhaps a death wish. Whatever the case, whoever the mouse, it hadn’t gone well for that fella.

Again, we were fine that the cats were doing their job but decidedly unnerved while also completely aware that as the weather gets colder, the mice issues are becoming manifest. Wednesday morning, the furballs were very interested in our clothes closet, rooting around D’s shoes. A mouse shot out and ran into the bedroom. I, standing near the bed, jumped on it. I might have screamed similar to how they do in cartoons. The cats, ignoring me, expertly corralled while D covered the little thing with the pan and I, having gotten off the bed, handed him a magazine to slide under for transport back into the wilds of our yard. We would obviously need to pay some attention to blocking up the porous points in the house. Noted. Wednesday night, as we were watching Babylon Berlin (very good), the actions of D&L once again suggested it was mouse time. We pressed pause, turned on a light, and sure enough there was a scurrying little creature ricocheting around the room. D took chase with the pan, I stood at the ready with the magazine (I did not leap or scream this time). Backed into a corner, the little one jumped into the pan but then, having not been told that D had good intentions, jumped out and ran under a door and into a giant hole in the pantry, which presumably goes outside. The cats were indignant. They stared at the pantry door. They kept up vigil until after we’d gone to bed. At 2:30 in the morning, the by-now unmistakable sounds of a mouse being chased by two cats woke us up. The pan, the magazine, the chase. This time, the little meese-ness was wedged into a crevice in the kitchen and I, by now long over my initial leap-away instinct, was at the ready with something to cover the pan once the mouse was inside. D managed to coax it out and into its golden (Teflon) chariot and out into the world.

The next day I noticed both cats wandering from place to place where they’d last encountered their prizes. Desi stood in the kitchen staring at the area where the night-before’s mouse had been rescued. Lucille had taken up watch at the clothes closet door. They barely glanced up at me as I went from room to room doing whatever it was I was doing. I recognized the instinct. Return to the place where you know a thing has happened and maybe it will happen again. And, depending on whether that was a golden, wonderful moment or one that wants a re-do, the thought process goes (at least in my head), if I stand here long enough staring and waiting, I’ll have another chance.

The thinking part of me knows that it never turns out like that. I’ve waited at plenty of emotional portals for a person or situation to appear just like before and dazzle me. Or materialize for me to remake/remodel the whole sha-bang-a-lang into a better situation. Needless to say, it’s emotion over intellect so on I stare, ruminating and cogitating until the anvil drops on my head (like in a cartoon) and the little stars blink on and off with It’s. Not. Happening. Here. The thing I’m looking for, the satisfaction, turns out to either be situated somewhere else or not situated at all. Perhaps it’s in my periphery vision so that if I just altered my gaze slightly, I’d see what I was looking for. Or maybe I don’t need to revisit that space again and just need to move on. Yet the stubborn me thinks that if I take my eyes off that one spot, I’ll miss my opportunity. Fool’s errand, that stuck-in-place moment. When D&I go round and round on an issue that’s age-old in our relationship, my stuckness keeps me grooving around the same old track, which does not produce any movement forward, and I’m assuming the same for him. What if I shifted to the left (or right, or hovered up) and found a different view? What would be the outcome then? Not discarding the issue. It’s still a real one, just like the mice, but perhaps it’s easier to be open to another perspective from a different vantage point. When I approach a new piece of writing, I walk down the same proverbial hallway looking in familiar rooms. It’s dawned on me that there are different hallways and new doors to try that will have ideas too. I don’t need to stare into the same space waiting.

I tried to explain this to the cats. No surprise they barely even looked at me. Then D took a foam gun and some steel wool and stuffed up as many open holes in as many places as we could find so that the meeces might gain no entry (next come the traps). The cats will have to settle on being proud of hunting inanimate objects. (Girl cat is currently engaged in taking down a twisty-tie inside an empty box. It’s going well.) While I am cracking open an empty notebook and wandering through the hallways of my imagination opening new doors.