Cats In Clover

  ***

  Ben had a swim in the pool the day after we came home but, when he tried to close the pool cover, it wouldn't budge. He examined the small motor that operated the heavy polyethylene cover and shook his head. "I don't know what's wrong with it. Might be a short. Might be anything."

  "Maybe Cal knows how to fix it."

  "I'll get him to look at it tomorrow." Ben shrugged. "Don't suppose it'll hurt to leave the cover open overnight. Not that I have any choice."

  In the morning I glanced at the pool and it shimmered in the sunshine as usual, inviting now that I was actually going in it to avoid the fleas. Anticipating my afternoon dose of flea-free water, I headed upstairs to tidy the bedrooms and bath. The second floor looked shabbier than ever in contrast with the fresh paint and new flooring downstairs. Renovating up here would keep Ben busy all winter. Perhaps for the two winters we'd be here, depending on how he had budgeted the costs. With luck, we'd recoup the costs when we sold.

  As I was making up the bed in the largest bedroom, I noticed a mouse on the window sill between the glass and the outside screen. The windows upstairs were old-fashioned, hinged at the bottom and opening into the room from the top. I didn't know how the little gray beast had found his way in, but I wanted him out. I shut the window, confining him, and considered the problem.

  I saw no way of letting the mouse escape into the outside world except by taking the screen off from the outside, which meant climbing a ladder. Could mice cling to cedar siding? The thought that it might use me as a pathway down the ladder to freedom was daunting. Besides, there was a Royal Hunter in residence. I woke George from his morning nap and carried him upstairs.

  "Do your duty, George." I opened the window, hoisted him over the top, dropped him on the sill and shut the window again. I headed for the door, not wanting to witness the carnage, but couldn't resist looking around to see if anything was happening.

  George sat at one end of the sill, placidly gazing at the mouse. The mouse sat at the other end, staring at George. I blinked, sure I was hallucinating, but they hadn't moved. Then they edged to the center, sniffed one another, and swapped corners.

  Thinking it might fluster George to have me watch his foul deed, I went to the kitchen. A rejuvenating cup of coffee brought me back to sanity. George had never been embarrassed by anything except falling off the furniture when someone was watching. Even then, he did such a good job of pretending he really meant to fall that no one could have guessed he was mortified.

  When I went back upstairs fifteen minutes later they'd done nothing but switch corners again.

  "George," I said, "you have a reputation as the mightiest hunter in the land. You have despatched more mice than I care to remember. Why won't you do this one in?"

  He looked at me and yawned.

  Been there, done that.

  I gave up and took George from the window enclosure. He strolled downstairs, obviously intending to finish his nap. There was only one thing to do. I yelled for the Houseboy.

  He came upstairs with a small paper bag.

  "Are you going to kill it?"

  "Of course not. Poor little thing deserves a chance." He shooed the mouse into the bag, went downstairs and let it loose in the orchard. It fled into the blackberry vines beside Cal's fence without a backward glance.

  "If that mouse had owned a bell, George would have been wearing it," I said.

  "He probably thought it was your mouse. He's too much of a gentleman to steal someone else's prey."