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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.

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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.