And I’m OK with that. Perhaps I should explain . . .
The mouse in question is hot pink and made of some kind of faux fur. Unless it’s the screaming green one . . . or the leopard print one (though that one tends to hide behind the litter box), or the black one. They’re the playthings, arch enemies, and constant companions of my cats.
These mice came to light recently when I moved a bookshelf that had been in place for years and found a treasure trove of toys underneath. Apparently that’s where all the mouses went to hide. (In our home, “mouses” are cute little cat toys; “mice” are vermin.) Ha! No more. Now mouses are everywhere, including on, in, and under my bed.
It’s kind of sweet, really, when through the fog of sleep I vaguely realize Charlie has jumped up by my head and plopped a toy by my nose. Sometimes he’ll actually place his treasure in my hand. Then he sits there breathing on me until I wake up enough to toss the mouse across the room. That’s his cue to leap on his furry foe and wrestle it into submission before bringing it back to start the process all over again.
I think what I love about that is Charlie’s faith in me. He has complete confidence that I love him enough to do something that makes him happy, even when I’m asleep.
Hmmm. Wonder why don’t I always have that kind of faith in God? (He doesn’t even sleep…)