He’s the size of a peanut M&M but silky soft, with legs and feet thin as toothpicks. He lost his grip on his mama’s back as she tried to escape a flower pot on my screen porch. He fell three feet to the floor. I figure that’s like 10 stories to a human, but he landed on carpet and survived. I hoped they’d stay but the mama was too spooked. She had de-stuffed a porch pillow to build her nest, burying herself below three inches of fluff and potting soil. I water the aloe every other week so she’d given birth and been nursing there no more than two weeks when I frightened her by plucking up the fluff. She poked her head up and we both screamed a little. I quickly put everything back and left her alone, but it was too late. By the next morning she and her seven pups (yep, that’s what they’re called) had evacuated, refugees from what was in fact a very sweet setup.
In eighteen years I’ve seen one mouse inside the house. Simba saw it before me, dispatched it and matter-of-factly returned to his nap. Winter is coming and Simba is gone. I might as well have hung out a sign,
Who knew? Simba knew, that’s who! Instinctively and matter-of-factly, that ancient orange beast took care of business like a boss for eighteen winters, and I’m not sure I ever once thanked him properly. How many times do we fail to recognize the gifts and graces of others until they leave us? I want to pay better attention. And crazy as it sounds to my own ears . . . I truly can’t believe I’m saying so . . . I might have to get a cat.
~ peace & prayers,