When the mouseling
stepped on Patches’s whisker,
the little cat woke
with a start.
It’s odd,
as I’m sure you know,
for a mouse to walk right up to a cat
and step on her whisker.
But the night was dark,
and this particular mouse
was very young.
Also, he was excited,
which was why
he wasn’t paying attention.
He’d been scurrying
home to his mother,
eager to show her
the bright red berry
he held
carefully
in his mouth.
In the darkness
he hadn’t noticed
the crazy-quilt curl of fur
when he ran
beneath the postbox.
And it was just bad luck
that the whisker
lay in his path.
Have I mentioned Patches’s whiskers
before?
Not just that she washed
and smoothed them
regularly,
but have I told you
how magnificent they were?
In case I haven’t,
I’ll tell you now.
Patches’s whiskers were splendid.
White.
THICK!
Long!
Long enough
to be stepped upon
by a mouseling
so excited about
his red berry
that he forgot to look out
for obvious dangers
such as cats.
And that is how
Patches’s whisker,
her very own long, white whisker,
tugged her awake
from a sound sleep.
She jerked her head up,
slapped her paw down,
and caught
the mouseling
neatly
in the curve of her claws.
“Help!” he cried,
dropping the red berry.
“Let me go!”
Patches’s tummy rumbled.
Every cat knows
that mice—
even little mouselings—
are good
for eating.
Patches had never actually
eaten a mouse.
In fact,
she had never even met one.
(I’ve told you she was not
a worldly cat.)
But she was pretty sure
this was
a mouse she held,
in the curve of her claws.
Still,
just to make sure
before taking a bite,
she asked,
“Who are you?”
“I’m a mouse,”
quavered the tiny fellow.
“I knew that,”
Patches snapped.
(She was usually
a polite cat,
but having to ask
something she should have known
rather embarrassed her,
so she covered her embarrassment,
as folks sometimes do,
with a sharp remark.)
“But,”
she added
in a more pleasant tone,
“surely you have a name.”
By this time
the tiny mouse—
who,
though he was very young,
didn’t have to ask any questions
to recognize a cat . . .
or the claws of a cat
holding him captive,
or the teeth of a cat
gleaming above him—
had begun trembling
from his teensy whiskers
all the way down to his skinny tail.
Still he answered bravely,
“I don’t think I do,”
he said.
“Have a name,
I mean.
My mother calls me mouseling,
but she calls
my brothers and sisters
mouseling too.
So it’s not quite the same.”
And then he looked
into Patches’s golden eyes
and said,
“I’ve heard
you have to own a human
to have a real name.
Do you own a human?”
“Of course,”
Patches answered,
her voice growing softer
at the mere mention of her humans.
“At least,
I had a girl once.
But a golden leaf
came dancing,
and she got lost.”
(Cats,
as you may have noticed,
are not much inclined
to take responsibility
for their own mistakes.)
“Oh,”
said the mouseling.
He wasn’t sure
he understood,
but it seemed best
to keep the cat talking.
Talking was far better
than biting,
chewing,
swallowing.
At least it was better
for him!
So he wriggled just a bit
to get away from the claw
pressing on his soft, round ear
and asked,
“Was she a nice girl?”
“Very nice!”
Patches said.
“Very, very nice!”
And then her tummy rumbled,
which reminded her that,
however nice her girl
might be,
her girl wasn’t here now,
and that she,
Patches,
was very,
very
hungry.
Patches looked down at the mouseling
still held snugly
beneath her paw.
Where should she start?
With that funny little nose?
The whiskers might tickle.
With the skinny tail?
Certain to be rubbery.
Even while she considered,
her tummy rumbled again . . .
more loudly
this time.
“Please!”
whispered the mouseling.
And that’s when Patches
realized her mistake.
Making conversation with your dinner
is never
a good idea.
It makes the first bite
so very
hard
to take.
“Please!”
the mouseling said again,
and his pink nose
with its tickly-looking whiskers
went
sniffle-sniffle-sniff.
Without another word,
Patches lifted her paw.
And the mouseling
snatched up his bright red berry
and
s
k
i
t
t
e
r
e
d
away.
Patches laid her white chin
on her white paws
and sighed.
What kind of a cat was she,
anyway,
who couldn’t even eat a mouse?
Her tummy rumbled
more loudly than ever.
Then it wriggled again,
just for good measure.