This past weekend was the least restful one in a long time.
It poured buckets. We started it off by meeting with our financial planner at 9AM Saturday. Baby G has taken to shrieking like a demented velociraptor whenever he wants anything; to be picked up, to be fed, to be fed MOAR THINGS, to be changed, to go to bed, to wake up. It’s a guttural, horrible noise that sounds like it must hurt his throat. When he really gets going, Ron claps his hands over his ears, Harry starts shouting, I start shaking, and Michael runs out of the room.
He made that noise all weekend long. It was great.
So needless to say, by the time the last kid was in bed and the last dish was washed last night, I was beat. Exhausted. Drained. I downloaded a hidden object game and proceeded to wander aimlessly around, wondering why I’d installed it on the “master” difficulty level and wishing I had an entire bottle of wine.
I was just starting to relax when I heard the cat yowling. Now, Max the Cat is a vicious, bloodthirsty killer, but he is also a giant softie who needs endless praise for his mur-diddly-urdler or he mopes. Truly. He has therefore developed a particular yowling noise that loosely translates to “Look, hairless meat-sacks! I HAVE BROUGHT DINNER! COME AND SEE!!”
Usually he does it outside. Last night, it was coming from the kitchen.
Michael was in the middle of a timed mission on some online game, so I heaved myself out of my couch-nest to investigate. There was Max, face pressed up against a stack of boxes for recycling – and there was a mouse’s tail, and hey! lookee here, friends and neighbours! There was the mouse, alive and unharmed.
And in my kitchen.
I got a broom and a Tupperware container. I followed it patiently around the kitchen. It broke for the living room. I found it under the dog bed. The dog was still *in* the dog bed. He is the worst guard dog ever. I dropped the container over the mouse, neat as you please. But then as I was sliding the dustpan under the container, the freaking mouse made itself completely flat somehow, slithered out through the gap, and bolted.
There followed a ridiculous game of, well, cat-and-mouse, wherein Michael lifted pieces of furniture one by one and I crawled around on the floor with a flashlight, looking for the stupid rodent and hating my life. We finally found him inside the baseboard heater. I chased him out of there but he eluded us again. Under the couch! IN THE COUCH? No…
Located him behind the electric fireplace. Michael was now wielding the container because I guess it was more interesting than his video game. He almost had the little guy, but the ridiculous beastie refused to let us save his life. He bolted for the dining room and that’s when Max, tired of watching us fuck up his generous gift, jumped on the poor thing and grabbed it in his mouth.
Michael actually got him to put the mouse down, and he took it outside. We’re not sure if it was dead or just faking it – mice will play dead as a last resort – but at least it was not in the house any more.
I really wish, if the cat wanted to do something nice for us, that he would just grow some thumbs and learn to do the dishes.