While the cat’s away, the mice will play.
~Author Unknown
When we moved from Delaware to Florida in the late 1970s, our first order of business was to search for a building lot and get started on our house. The thin walls of apartment living added pressure, and we quickly found a lot in a subdivision not far away. It was within a bicycle ride of our apartment, and I enjoyed the exercise and visiting my husband Jim daily at the building site. However, after we moved into our new home, we found the neighbors a little too close. Within two years, we were again looking for a lot a little farther out in the country.
We fell in love with rolling hills and fields of corn. Soon, we found our perfect building site in a small, new subdivision among maize and horses. Within nine months, we were moving again. Farmland abounds in Delaware, and we felt right at home almost immediately. We loved the country atmosphere, and the closeness to shopping and all the other perks our new town had to offer.
Even a kitty found us — a stray someone must have dropped off — so now we were a family with an animal living in the country. Perfect. We named our kitty Fetcher, because Jim taught him to fetch pecans when he rolled them across the floor. Fetcher would pick them up in his mouth and bring them back every time.
One night, I was awakened by the tinkle of piano keys, and I attributed the ghostly music to Fetcher. I rolled over and went back to sleep, only to be awakened again a short while later. I got up to investigate and was surprised to see Fetcher sleeping at the foot of the bed. Now I was wide-awake and tiptoeing toward the piano. Fetcher slept on.
I saw and heard nothing, so I went back to bed, hearing no more music the rest of the night. I figured Fetcher, being the smart cat we knew him to be, was playing tricks on me.
Over breakfast the next morning, I heard the keys tinkle again. This time, I was looking at Fetcher and knew it couldn’t be him. Jim said, “Mouse.” Yes, it was harvest time, and we had a visitor. Unfortunately, he had found our piano, a spinet. Jim got busy removing the top and looking down into the inner workings, but he couldn’t find a mouse. Next, he removed the front above the pedals, but all the work was for nothing. And where was Fetcher all this time? Sleeping.
So we resorted to the old standby mousetrap — baiting it with bacon and peanut butter. Not wanting Fetcher to be caught in the trap, we placed it under the top lid of the piano and waited. Fetcher never realized he was the cat side of the cat-and-mouse team. He remained disinterested. After all, his food was lovingly prepared by staff every day and placed in his dish.
Several nights passed with more eerie music, and twice we rushed to look under the lid after hearing the pop of the spring, only to find the bacon gone and a lonely smear of peanut butter left on the trap. Fetcher found this mildly interesting, but soon he went back to sleep while I lay bug-eyed staring into the darkness, waiting for the next snap.
It got to the point that we considered adopting another cat — one that could earn its keep. Or maybe we could borrow one from a neighbor. Should we post a sign at the front of our development?
Feline mouse catcher wanted for the night. Must be well trained with a high success rate. Urgent. Reply to this number as soon as possible.
Or maybe, I thought, I should post an ad on Craigslist. Nothing would appear weird there.
Finally, the mouse did succumb to the trap, and fortunately we found no damage inside the piano. Fetcher never showed any interest in the rodent and wouldn’t even get near it when we tried to show it to him. Later, we learned that female cats are the better mousers. Instead, Fetcher was a retriever extraordinaire. He always ran after sliding pecans — and the grinding sound of the can opener. That cat sure had it good.
~Connie Biddle Morrison
