eenie meenie miney mo

"Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a snackie by its toe..."

"What's a snackie?" asked my sister, Mason.  "I've never heard of that before."

I looked at Mason and rolled my eyes. "Clearly, it's a made-up word.  I needed to add a second syllable in order to make the rhyme work.  MOUSES!"

Mason thought about this for a moment before asking, "What kinds of snacks have toes?  Mice?"

"No," I informed her.  "Well, they do but they're not on the menu tonight.  There are two bags of treats up here on the island and a plate with some cheese.  Some orange cheese and some white cheese. I'm trying to decide whether to go with the treats or the cheese and if the cheese, which kind."

Mason hopped up onto the island next to me and after snatching one of the treat bags with a claw, she jumped back down onto the floor.  "I'd go with the treats," she called behind her.  "Snacking on cheese gives you those weird dreams about Mouseland and the Canadian Cheese Consortium."  Her voice trailed off as she headed into the family room with her bag of treats.

"No can do.  The rhyme just eliminated the last bag of treats.  Besides, I'm not sure Mouseland is a dream," I added even though Mason was now out of earshot.  "Now where was I?  Oh yeah, eenie meenie miney mo..."

                                    ************************************************

After scarfing down several chunks of the orange cheese, I headed into the family room, myself. Snacking on cheese always makes me sleepy, you see.

"Psst...  Cat.  Psst...  Cat.  PSST...  CAT!!!  Are you awake there, Mr. Cat?"

"Well I am now," and I stared into the eyes of a little grey mouse.  "What do you want this time?"

"Your assistance..."

"Yeah, yeah, my assistance is required.  Mouseland needs me again.  Yadda, yadda, yadda. MOUSES!"  I waited for the grammar mice police to chime in with their usual grammar lessons regarding the plural of mouse but heard nothing.  Nothing but silence.  "What's up with the grammar mice?" I asked the little grey mouse standing before me.  "Cat got their tongues?"

"That's why I'm here, Mr. Cat," answered the little grey mouse.

"You mean a cat really did get their tongues?  MOUSES!"

Again, nothing but silence.  Truth be told, the absence of the grammar mice police was somewhat disconcerting.

The little grey mouse glared at me, pursing his lips, signalling his disapproval.  "Follow me, please. I'm on a tight schedule."

I rose from the chesterfield, stretching first my front legs and then my back.  After giving my head a bit of a shake and letting out a loud yarn, I obediently followed the little grey mouse.  There was no use arguing as the mice of Mouseland are well known as being a rather persistent lot.

As expected, when we turned the corner and entered what should have been the kitchen, the air turned thick and hazy.  Rainbow coloured threads swirled before my eyes and the space-time continuum was altered as the kitchen morphed into the great hall of Mouseland.  But the hall was different, this time, for other than the little grey mouse who had come to summon me, there wasn't a mouse in sight.

"This way," the little grey mouse called as he led me down the center of the hall until there, right before my eyes, he disappeared in a poof of light.

"MOUSES!" I cried and stopped dead in my tracks.  I inched my way forward, sniffing out the mouse's tracks and then, all of a sudden, a little grey paw reached out of nowhere, grabbed me by a whisker and pulled me in.  I felt myself falling.  Down and down and down I fell, picking up speed as I went.  It seemed like I was falling forever and goodness knows how far I fell until finally, I stopped, landing with a thud.

"Ouch!  Get off me, you big lug!!!" cried the little grey mouse as he struggled to crawl out from beneath me, looking a little worse for the wear.

"Sorry about that," I apologised.  "Didn't see the floor coming."  I stood and brushed off my fur.  Looking about, I found the room to be empty save for a small group of mice, huddled around a table.  I counted and found there to be eleven.  "Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a snackie by its toe..."  I stopped myself short. Probably wasn't a good idea to be talking in such a suggestive manner.  I quickly changed the subject and asked, "So what's with the table of mice?  Are they having a meeting or something?"

"Yes, this is the Council Chamber of the CCCCCGMPF and this is their monthly council meeting."

"The CCCCCGMPF?  What the mouses...?"

"The Canadian Cheese Consortium County Council Grammar Mouse Police Force," the little grey mouse explained.  "They gave themselves a name that would make them feel important."

"MOUSES!"

"Exactly," sighed the little grey mouse.  "But as you can see, they're in the midst of a meeting. They're discussing an amendment to the Mouseland dictionary whereby they would..."  The little mouse stopped mid-sentence.  "Hold on, they're about to vote," and I could sense the mouse holding his breath so I held mine as well.

"All those in favour," one of the grammar mice cried and I watched as eight little mice held up their paws.  "All those against," the grammar mouse continued and the three other mice held up paws. "That's it, then.  Eight to three in favour of NOT amending the Mouseland dictionary and changing the plural form of mouse to mice. "

"MOUSES!" I cried.

And as if echoing from the very council chamber walls themselves, I heard, "Mice, the plural of mouse, is mice."  Oddly enough, the familiar sound of the grammar mice attempting to correct my grammar was somewhat reassuring.

"Ummm..." and I whispered to the little grey mouse.  "They do realise that MOUSES! isn't meant to be the plural form of mouse, don't they?  It's more of an expression, really.  It's like...  Uh...  Well... It's just MOUSES!  It's what you say when you're frustrated or excited or you just want to add a little emphasis to something.  It was never meant to mean more than one mouse.  MOUSES!"

The little grey mouse shook his head.  "Sadly, no.  They think your brother Nerissa the Cat invented the word to mock their love of grammar."

"Well that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," I explained to the little grey mouse, somewhat indignantly.  "Nissy mock grammar?  Why, he was a grammar fanatic!  Nissy loved his grammar! He always made sure to use I and me correctly, not to mention lay and lie.  And he never ended a sentence with a preposition.  Okay, sometimes he did do that.  Being a stickler with the preposition stuff can make a cat appear a little pretentious at times, if you know what I mean.  But the bottom line is this.  Nissy truly loved good grammar.  He loved it almost as much as he loved inventing words and, of course, using run-on sentences which he freely admitted to doing, not ever denying it one bit.  MOUSES!"

"Mice!" the grammar mice shouted as they stared pointedly at me.  "The plural of mouse is mice."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," and I waved off the mice as I approached them.  "Look, you've got it all wrong. Firstly, mouses doesn't mean a bunch of mice," and I held up a paw before they could attempt to correct me.  "Secondly, look around you, you mice.  This is the twenty-first century and the world is a-changing.  All the major spell-checks on the Internet are accepting MOUSES! as a word and it's only a matter of time before Oxford and Websters do, too.  THIS IS THE FUTURE.  You have it within your grasp to be a progressive grammar council, leading the way to a new tomorrow.  A tomorrow where the word MOUSES! is as acceptable as cream cheese."

The mice gasped in unison.

I saw I was making headway and so continued my spiel.  "Listen up, you mice.  We can all see you're just digging in your heels, here.  Digging them in until you can dig no further.  But do you know what happens when you dig in your heels?  You end up digging a hole for yourself.  A hole for yourself so deep, there's not getting out of it. You think that by admitting you're wrong about this whole mice versus mouses thing, you'll somehow be viewed as being weak in the eyes of the mice of Mouseland.  But you won't!  Owning up to our mistakes only makes us stronger.  Owning up to our mistakes shows the world we have character.  Resisting change is what reveals us to be weak."

I looked over at the little grey mouse who had summoned me to Mouseland and could see him smiling from ear to ear.  Clearly my speech had pleased him.

Turning back to the council I added, "And now, my little Mouseland friends, what do you say we take another vote, huh?  I think that sounds like a good idea."  But the members of the CCCCCGMPF continued to simply sit around the table, stone-faced.

"Okay then, we'll play it your way," I said.  Pointing a claw at each of the little grammar mice sitting at the table and with a gleam in my eye, I chanted, "Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a snackie by its toe..."

it's a scam

Sometimes I wonder about my peeps. Nissy used to say that all the time and truth be told, he was right to wonder.  My peeps.  What can I say?  They're peeps! MOUSES!

And if we're being really honest here, it's Peep #2 whom I wonder about the most.

Last night, the second peep was anxious to watch some program on CBC about raccoons.  Determined to watch it.  Said it was about rehabilitating raccoons in residential areas or something like that. Probably wanted to see it on account of the marauding gang of rockies living in my very own neighbourhood.  Personally, I kind of think they're past the point of rehabilitation but I've been known to be wrong before.

Anyway, Peep #1 wasn't too keen on watching the rocky show and looked it up in the TV listings to see what it was called. She had the time and channel, just not the name.  Then I heard her say something about the program in question being called Fool Canada. Surely a show with a name like that couldn't be a documentary.

But would Peep #2 listen?  Not a chance.  "They said it was about raccoons and it comes on at 8:30," was the second peep's reply.

Well I immediately knew exactly what was going on.  So did Mason.  We called out to the peeps, "It's not David Suzuki, you know!" but, of course, our cries were in vain.

So the show came on and just as the first peep, Mason and I had expected, it was not a documentary about rockies.  It was a comedy.  One of those comedies where peeps go out into the neighbourhood and film themselves fooling other peeps.  To be honest, I think the name kind of gave it away...  Fool Canada.  MOUSES!

And by the way, this is not the first time Peep #2 has been fooled by such things.  MOUSES!

Then on the news this morning, I heard someone calling Canadians, fools.  Could they have been watching Fool Canada, too?

No, that wasn't it.  That wasn't it at all.  This guy wasn't someone making peeps laugh for the purpose of entertainment.  He was of a totally different breed.

Apparently this guy calling me names was a scammer.  He makes his living by scamming cats and peeps from all around the world and he said he had made a lot of money scamming Canadians, claiming they were fools.

Well let me tell you, this scamming scammer is a fool, himself, if he thinks a Canadian kitty like me is going to take his name calling lying down.  I'm not going to take it lying down, standing up or sitting, either.  Not even going to take it while washing my tail.  No one calls this kitty a fool. MOUSES!

Time for a little discussion of phone scammer identification, I should think.  Phone scammers and Internet ones, too.


The scammer in question was calling peeps up and telling them they had made errors on their income taxes and therefore owed the Canada Revenue Agency money.  In order to avoid prosecution and even the possibility of going to jail, they had to pay up right away.  And they needed to pay by wiring the money to them or purchasing pre-paid credit cards.

Now here's the thing, the CRA doesn't call peeps up, out of the blue, and threaten to toss them in jail.  And even more importantly, they do accept cheques.  MOUSES!

That's right folks, you can always identify the scammers by how they want to be paid.  If they're asking you to pay them money in a way that cannot be traced, odds are, they're scammers. Legitimate businesses and government agencies have no problem with your writing a cheque because, guess what, they have legitimate bank accounts into which they can deposit those cheques. Scammers usually don't.  MOUSES!

Another way to identify the scammers is by what they already do or don't know about you.  Like when someone from your bank calls you up, asking for your bank account information.  Uhhh... The bank already knows all that!  Yup, it's true.  The bank where you do your banking already has access to your account numbers and stuff so if someone calls you up on the phone and says they need this kind of information, they're scammers, for sure.

And if they call you up asking for your account information from a bank where you don't even have an account, that's a sure sign of a scammer, too.

I think my favourite phone scammer of all was the guy who wanted Nissy to give him access to the computer because he was using it all wrong.  Nissy told him flat out that he was a cat and cats can do no wrong.  Then he hung up.  MOUSES!

And speaking of the Internet, it's rife with scammers, as well.  I'd say, on average, I get a paw full of scammy e-mails each and every week.  Usually, they're wanting to give me money that I've inherited or something and I need to contact them to collect.  I've never actually contacted them on account of my not having any long-lost feline relatives working for oil companies in foreign lands.

But today I received one with a new twist on things.  It was from a courier service.  My parcel had been delivered to a local post office on account of their not having the correct mailing address. They wanted me to open up some file for information about the parcel or something.

Obviously, I didn't.  Didn't open the file.  NEVER OPEN UNKNOWN FILES!  MOUSES!

I figure that if a courier service - or even Canada Post - is trying to get me a parcel, they probably already know my name.  They didn't.  Didn't even know the Peep's.  So no, Mr Courier Scamming Scammer guy, I am NOT going to believe that you tracked me down by my e-mail to deliver a parcel I didn't even know I had coming when you don't even know who I am.  I'm not going to believe that at all.

I also didn't believe the scammer who tried to get me to open a file so that I'd have the correct court documentation when appearing in some unknown court in some unkown state for a traffic violation. I'm a cat.  I don't drive.  MOUSES!

But since they didn't even know my name, I suppose they didn't know I was a cat, either.

If you ever receive an e-mail addressed to "undisclosed recipients," it's a sure sign of scamming activity going on.  That beeping sound you hear in your head?  That's your internal scamming alarm going off.  Whether they want to give you something or want you to open a file, if they have any business contacting you, they likely know who you are.  MOUSES!

So that, my friends, brings me to the end of Spotting Scammers 101. They're easy to spot once you know to be aware.

At some point I may offer a higher level course.  Spotting the scammers who actually appear to be legit, even to kitties like me.  The ones who have a bunch of information about you already. These ones are trickier to identify but still, with a little common sense, they can be avoided.

But in the meantime, why not pull up a chair and watch some good old TV. That show about the raccoons was pretty funny.  They sure did fool Peep #2.  Peep #1, on the other paw, was on to their tricks.  MOUSES!

in the news

MOUSES!  MOUSES!!  MOUSES!!!

Sometimes the day is just rotten, you know?  MOUSES!

So I was listening to the news on TV and there were these reporters complaining that the Prime Minister wasn't allowing National reporters to ask him any questions at some...  some...  some thing he was doing.  An appearance of some sort.  He was only letting local reporters ask questions and even they weren't getting to ask very many.  Hearing this, I thought to myself, this could be a problem for me.

After all, I'm not just national.  I'm far bigger than that.  I'm INTER-national! Nerissa's Life has a global audience, you see.

And then there's the bit about my being a cat.  Something tells me the Prime Minister has never answered any questions from a feline reporter, before.  He never once answered any of Nissy's tweets and Nissy was the best darned tootin' reporter the world has ever seen.  Bet the PM didn't answer his tweets on account of his being a cat.  That's specism, that is.  MOUSES!

Thing is, I'm a cat, too.

Not that I'd want to be anything else.  Being a cat is the best.  I should know because...  Because I am one.

But I'm thinking that I might have to disguise myself as a peep if I'm going to be allowed to ask the Prime Minister questions.  A local peep.  A local peep who is willing to ask the right kind of questions.  You know, the kind of questions the PM likes to answer.  That sort of thing.  MOUSES!

But if I ask only the questions I'm allowed to ask, will I still be a good reporting kitty like Nissy? I think not.  Reporters have to ask the hard stuff and be willing to dig in the dirt.  You know what I mean?

Good thing the letter I'm in the midst of writing is to the Premier and not the Prime Minister.  I'm betting he'll answer my questions.  Bet he'll answer them all.  MOUSES!

So that was the start of my day.  A shock to my system about the question asking thing, for sure. And that was on top of the fact that it was a publishing day for my blog and I didn't have a thing about which to write.  MOUSES!

Then came my conversation with Rushton.  He came into my office while I was pouring through newspapers and stuff, looking for things in the news.  Looking for inspiration.  Something I could write about for today's blog post.  I explained this to Rushy and he immediately told me that he knew of some news I could use.

Rushton:  Peep #1 made a sandwich.
Me:  That's not news.
Rushton:  She made one for the second peep, too.
Me:  Again, not news.
Rushton:  She made one for Andy.
Me:  Nope, that's stupid but not newsworthy.  She's just kooky enough to do something like that.
Rushton:  Andy ate it.
Me:  Now that IS news!
Rushton:  I knew it!!!  Too bad it isn't true.

MOUSES!!!

So I went back to pouring through the local paper, all the while thinking to myself, I bet the reporters writing for this paper would be allowed to ask the Prime Minister questions on account of their being local, not to mention the fact that they're peeps.

I read in the police blotter report kind of thingy in one local paper that some armoured guards had to call the police on account of their accidentally locking themselves inside the bank* or something like that.  It occurred to me that that's just the kind of thing that could happen to my Peep #1 if she were an armoured guard but since she isn't, it probably wasn't her.  MOUSES!

Actually, I'm pretty glad it wasn't my peep on account of such an incident being really embarrassing.  I don't know how a kitty can face the neighbourhood kitties after their peep does something silly like that.  It's enough to make a kitty the laughing stock of the neighbourhood, for sure.

At some point later on, Anderson came into the room looking for his copy of the book he, Rushton and I are reading for our Kitty Lit. 101 course.  The book we're supposed to be reading.  Andy hasn't started reading his yet.  I, on the other paw, am almost finished mine.  Unfortunately, Andy's slacking wasn't news, either.

I tossed Andy's book at him and he caught it, mid-air.  He then trotted out of my office like a puppy carrying a prize.

I gazed out my office window, hoping inspiration would hit me.

That's when Rushton came running in, skidded to a stop and slapped me on the back of my head.  I momentarily wondered if Rushton was, in fact, inspiration herself.  Momentarily, mind you.   I came to my senses quickly enough.  Rushy is a boy and I'm pretty sure Inspiration is a lady.

"I know what you can blog about!" Rushton cried.  "You can blog about our doctor's appointment last week."

I peered at my brother and narrowed my eyes.  "You sure you want me to tell the world what you weigh?  The nurse weighed you, remember?  And remember the look on the doctor's face when she saw it written down?  Before she realised that was including the carrier, that is.

Rushton and I decided that blogging about our doctor's appointment would not be news after all even though we were both very good and no peeps were harmed during the visit.  And I'd just like to point out that Rushy weighs a whole pound more than I.  He's claiming it's all floof but I have other suspicions.

Needless to say, I overheard the peeps talking about encouraging Rushy to go for more walks with them around and about in the yard.  MOUSES!

I closed my eyes and scrunched up my nose.  About what could I blog?  What?  WHAT?  I had nothing on paw.

Peep #1's sweet peas are blooming.  Nothing newsworthy about that.  It's raining again.  Pouring, in fact.  Most definitely nothing newsy about that.  Constance ate a mosquito.  Hmm...  Could I write a blog post about a mosquito eating cat?

Nah, I had nothing.  NOTHING.  Nadda.  Not a thing.  My mind was as blank as the computer screen before me.  MOUSES!  What was I going to do?  Was I going to write about nothing at all?

Could one write a blog post about absolutely nothing?  Hmmm...

And that's when it hit me.  Inspiration, that is.  Not Rushton re-entering the room.

Yup, Inspiration whacked me on the side of my head on her way out.  She whacked me in the head as she walked out of my office, muttering something about checking out Vegas with Old Lady Luck.  MOUSES!

It occurred to me then that I could offer my teleportation services for a small, modest fee.  "You need transportation to Vegas, ladies?  I'll teleport you over for a mere fifteen percent cut!  Twelve? Ten?  Nine?  Awww...   MOUSES!"

So that's my blog post for today, my friends.  A post about nothing.  Nothing at all.  I'm hoping to do better on Wednesday.  MOUSES!



* Crime Report by Heather Killam, The Annapolis County Spectator, Nova Scotia.

the old lady

She sat on her front porch, rhythmically rocking back and forth. Off in the distance was the sound of young children playing.  Closing her eyes, she smiled, remembering a time long ago when her own children had played in this very garden, squealing with delight and laughing at corny jokes only children could find funny.

Songbirds were singing. They darted here and there amongst the shrubbery, most likely looking for bugs, perhaps a few berries.  Sparrows pecked at seed that had fallen onto the ground below the feeder where several goldfinches ate their fill of thistle seed.

Out of the corner of one eye, she saw movement and from the shadows emerged a ginger coloured cat.  "Hello there Thomas," the old lady cooed.  "Come on over and say hi to me, today."

The old lady stopped the chair from rocking.  Bending down she reached out a hand, rubbing her thumb and middle finger together.  The cat approached gingerly before suddenly leaping up onto her lap.

Together they sat.  The old lady whispered to Thomas, telling him what a handsome boy he was and asking what sights he had seen that day.  In return the cat purred and purred with an occasional meow here and there, as if in answer to her questions.

Eventually, the old lady lifted Thomas up and off her knee.  Placing him gently on the wooden porch floor, she rose from the chair.  She walked slowly, her back stiff from age.  "You stay right there, Thomas," she called back.  "I'll get you your dinner.  Won't be but a minute.  Stay right where you are."

The porch door swung open and the old lady returned with two bowls in her hand.  One was filled with soft cat food and the other, fresh water.  Setting them down on the floor she laughed as the ginger cat approached the bowls, burying his face in the food.

Thomas wasn't a hungry cat.  Nor was he a stray.  He lived in a house just down the street but took the time, every day, to visit the old lady.

Most days, Thomas was the only company she had.  Her son and daughter took turns visiting, every other weekend.  Sometimes they'd bring along her grandchildren but most of the time, they came alone.  As her grandchildren grew older, they found less and less time to spend with her.

Thomas finished his dinner and looked up at the old lady.  He meowed softly, once, as if thanking her for the meal and then turned away.  He jumped down from the porch, walked across the front lawn and into the shrubbery.  He wasn't heading home for his home was in the opposite direction. The old lady smiled for she knew exactly where Thomas was heading.  Old Mrs. Doyle, next door, would be the next visit on his list.

And thus was the way of the world in the old lady's neighbourhood for much of the summer. Thomas made his rounds every day, visiting those, who by all accounts, needed visiting.  He enjoyed the meals given to him and in return kept the mice and rats at bay.  Thomas was adored by everyone who knew him.

Everyone but Greg Cullings, that is.  He and his wife didn't have time for cats.  They continually complained about cats digging in their garden.  They complained bitterly, a lot and to anyone and everyone who would listen.  The neighbourhood was home to skunks, raccoons and who knows what else but in the Cullings' minds, cats were to blame for everything.

The old lady worried about Thomas. She knew how much the Cullings hated seeing him making his rounds every afternoon.  Thomas seemed to sense it, too, for never once did he venture into their yard.  Not even the mice living there could tempt him.

Then came one day in late August when the old lady sat on her porch, rocking back and forth, waiting for Thomas' visit.  The afternoon passed without his appearance.  The next afternoon came and went but still there was no sign of the little ginger cat. There was no sign of Thomas all week.

Bright and early the next Monday morning, the old lady donned a light sweater and her good walking shoes before heading out the door, locking it behind her.  She called for Thomas, just in case, but there was no response.

The old lady walked down her front path and onto the sidewalk, heading toward the house where she knew Thomas lived.  Arriving there, she rapped on their front door and waited.  A teenage boy answered, nodding to music only he could hear.  At least he had the decency to pull an earpiece out of one ear before asking the old lady what she wanted.

"I was wondering about Thomas," the old lady stated.  "He...  He visits me in the afternoons," and she blushed, realising that to this young man's ears, what she was saying must sound absurd.

The boy pulled a second earpiece out of his other ear and turned off the music.  "The cat's gone." His voice cracked, ever-so-slightly.

"Gone?"

"Yeah," and he narrowed his eyes, nodding his head in the direction of the Cullings' house.  They called the county last week and had him picked up.  Me and Mom, we looked everywhere.  We were out every night calling and we phoned the radio station and paper, too.  We even put up some signs. I guess you couldn't have seen them.  Anyway, we didn't know," and he stopped as his voice cracked more.  His eyes were filling with tears.  He wiped them away before continuing.  "Anyway, we uh...  We didn't know that the County wrote this new bylaw.  A cat bylaw.  They didn't advertise it or anything.  But the Cullings knew.  Hell, I bet they were behind it!  They called the county and complained about Thomas being in their yard even though me and Mom know damn well he wasn't. He always avoided that house like the plague.  But the animal control guy, he believed the Cullings and came and caught Thomas.  Over at the Doyle's house, he said.  After three days at the pound, 'cause no one came to get him, they killed our cat.  They said that's what they were allowed to do by law.  What kind of law allows the government to go around killing people's pets?  And we would have gone to get him if we had known he was there.  We didn't even know about the bylaw itself!"

The old lady had stopped listening.  Turning away, she grasped at the handrail, leading up the front steps, and steadied herself.   Her eyes clouded over with tears and for a moment, she felt light-headed.  She stood there, motionless, praying she wouldn't collapse.  A heavy weight formed in the pit of her stomach.

Thomas was gone.  That little ginger cat who had visited her every afternoon, all summer long, would never visit her again.  That little cat who had never done anybody any wrong.  He had brought joy and pleasure to the lives around him while even keeping down the mouse population in the neighbourhood.

She suspected that the Cullings would say it was all Thomas' owners' fault.  That their cat shouldn't have been at large.  The old lady felt differently.  No one else on the street had objected to Thomas' travels at all.  No one but them.  And anyway, Thomas hadn't even been in their yard!  What had the boy said?  The dog catcher had to go to the Doyle's yard to catch him.


And what kind of heartless county officials would write a bylaw that allowed a cat to be killed simply because he hadn't been claimed after three days. That was only seventy-two hours!  Clearly that hadn't been enough time for Thomas.  His people had been looking for him.  They had been doing their best...

"Lady!  LADY!  Lady, are you all right?  I called 911.  They're sending an ambulance.  Are you going to be okay?"  The teenage boy was kneeling by the old lady's side.  She lay there, crumpled at the bottom of the steps.  "Don't move," he told her. "They said you should stay still and not move."

Off in the distance the old lady heard a siren approaching.  It drew closer and closer, coming to her aid.  She closed her eyes.  All she could think of was Thomas' little ginger face and how she desperately wished that someone had come to save him, too.
                                               

too dangerous to do

BREAKING NEWS...  We interrupt our previously scheduled blog post for...  for... for something really important.

Not to say that Nerissa's Life blog posts aren't always important.  Nissy always wrote about important stuff and I, Seville, intend to do the same.  But this particular blog post is really, REALLY, REALLY important.  It's about something that came to my attention just last week and I knew right there and then that I had to write about it, right away.  MOUSES!

Um, no.  It's not about nip.  But let me tell you, if it were, that would be super important, too.  MOUSES!

Let me start at the beginning...

Last Thursday, the flyers arrived.  Happens every week around the same time.  A car pulls into the driveway and some man, whom I don't actually know, flings a bundle of papers out of his car window and onto the driveway.  We cats learned long ago, not to be in the path of that bundle of flyers because let me tell you, it arrives with quite a thump.  A bundle of flyers to the side of the head is not something a kitty wants to experience, for sure.

Not that any of us have ever had the experience but truth be told, we all kind of watch to see if one day it might happen to the peep.  We took a vote and decided that that would be amusing. MOUSES!

Well last Thursday, the flyers arrived right on schedule and the peeps dove into them.  Most of them - and by them I mean the flyers and not the peeps - go straight from the bundle into a bag for recycling but Peep #1 usually checks out flyers coming from the grocery stores.  And because she loves us so much, she heads straight on over to the pet section, first thing.

Hmm...  Do you think I should be insulted that she's looking to get our kitty necessities on the cheap?  MOUSES!

Anyway, it was because of one of those grocery store flyers that I'm writing this special breaking news blog post, today.

In the pet section of said flyer, was the claim that thunderstorms could be scary for pets.  KNEW THAT!  But it also claimed that it's not the sound of the thunder boomies or the bright flashes of the lightening that scare us pets.  Didn't know that.  It claimed that static electricity builds up in our coats and that this electricity is actually what upsets us.  As I have a very electric personality all on my own, I fail to see how a little extra static can be all that scary.  MOUSES!

But then the flyer went on to make a suggestion.  It said that by rubbing a dryer sheet - you know, of the fabric softener kind - on your pet's fur, your pet's anxiety and discomfort would be reduced.

I happened to be reading the pet section of the flyer over the peep's shoulder at the time and when I saw that, the fur on the back of my neck stood up on end.  What, were they crazy?  How could they make a suggestion like that?  MOUSES!

Now I'm not up on all this newfangled electrical science thingy so I don't know, it might possibly be true but the peeps have never tried it with us and there's good reason for that.  IT'S VERY, VERY DANGEROUS, INDEED. MOUSES!

Just to be sure, I did a little research. No, I did not rub myself all over with a fabric softener sheet. That would be crazy and the one thing I'm not is crazy.  

What's that Peepers?  No.....  No I'm not.  I'm not crazy.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

But back to the topic at paw.  I immediately headed into the basement to check the labels of any boxes of fabric softener dryer sheets that might be lying around.  I found two.  Two different brands. Apparently Peep #1 has no product loyalty when it comes to laundry products.

Anyway, both boxes had warnings.  WARNINGS.  WARNINGS!!!

One box had a warning that if anyone should happen to swallow any part of one of those dryer sheets, a doctor or Poison Control Centre should be immediately called.  That's right, the word poison was used.  And on the second box, it specifically told peeps to keep the product away from toddlers and pets.  Pets.  Pets like you know, cats and dogs and bunnies and...  and...  Well the exact kind of pets isn't the important part.  The important part is why.  Why peeps are supposed to keep these dryer sheets away from us pets.  It's to AVOID ACCIDENTAL INGESTION, that's why. I'm assuming that purposeful ingestion would be bad, too.  MOUSES!

Basically what the warnings on the dryer sheet boxes mean is that YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO EAT DRYER SHEETS.  It could be dangerous.

And now I come to the whole purpose of my blog post.  I know, you're thinking it took me long enough.  Well I got here eventually so... so...  so...

So anyway, here's my problem.  We cats groom ourselves.  We groom ourselves with our tongues. And then after grooming, our tongues go back into our mouths and anything that happens to be on our tongues at the time, ends up being swallowed.

Now if peeps go and rub dryer sheets on our fur, all those chemicals that are in the sheets are going to end up on our fur.  Then when we wash ourselves...

You get the picture, I am sure.

Why, you might as well just chop up a few sheets and add it to our meals or why don't you, yourselves, chew on a sheet or two for linen fresh breath?  MOUSES!

NO!!!   I am NOT suggesting that anyone does that.  I'm merely pointing out the stupidity of the suggestion to rub a dryer sheet on a cat or dog's fur.  Doing that is practically the same as allowing us to eat it and the products say right on their boxes that ingesting - in other words, eating - dryers sheets is VERY DANGEROUS.  Far too dangerous for anyone to even think of doing.

I am shocked and appalled that the grocery store that sells my favourite cat food made this very dangerous suggestion but, I suppose, they didn't know any better.  Not that they couldn't have read the warnings on the dryer sheet boxes themselves, but...

No, this blog post isn't about blame. It's about keeping pets safe.  It's important that we get the word out that dryer sheets - and any part of them - are unsafe to eat.  And if they're not safe to eat, no one should be rubbing them on a cat or dog's fur because doing so is going to make that cat or dog ingest the chemicals they contain.  There's good reason that one box stated to keep the sheets away from pets!

So please...  Please...  PLEASE... Please keep dryer sheets away from your pets.  Do NOT rub these things on your cats' and dogs' fur.  Do NOT!!! Not ever.  Never.  Never ever, ever.  It's way too dangerous to do.  MOUSES!

                        ***************************************************

This just in...   After the publishing of my blog post and two - count 'em, TWO - e-mails to the grocery store's customer service centre, Peep #1 and I were promised a 'correction' in this week's flyer.  So today, I sent the peep out to investigate the matter at paw.

In every store across the land - or maybe just the Atlantic provinces as I'm not sure if the whole country got the same flyer with the same questionable advice -  there are notices posted wherever they have flyers.  It tells peeps that rubbing their pets with dryer sheets can cause harm and instead, suggest that they "create a safe place" to help calm their kitties and doggies during thunder storms.

We did it, my friends.  We did it!  KITTIES OF THE INTERNET...   UNITE!!!

when birds sing

What a WONDERFUL day!  It's glorious out there, for sure.  The sun is shining, the breeze is soft and the birds are singing their songs. Ahhh...

Do you know that song? The one that goes like... uh...  Oh, what a beautiful morning.  Oh what a beautiful day. You know that one? Surely you do.  Well let me tell you, that song was written about  a day like today.  Today is pretty much perfect.

Now if any of you haven't heard that song, you don't want to hear Peep #1 sing it.  There's nothing beautiful about that at all.  MOUSES!

And speaking of singing, I can tell you who does sing well.  Birds.  Yup, birds...  they were made for singing.

But speaking of birds, have you ever noticed how many bird haters there are out there?  How many peeps who really and truly hate birds?  Especially songbirds.  What did a songbird ever do to them?

I have to admit, sometimes the bird haters are hard to spot.  They're tricky, you see.  Tricky and conniving.  Kind of like weasels.  MOUSES!

Now here's the thing.  Most of the bird haters pretend to like birds.  PRETEND.  And they're good pretenders.  That's why they're so difficult to spot.

These bird haters join various groups and societies and purport to be the PROTECTORS OF SONGBIRDS  everywhere.  They tell everyone who will listen that they like birds.  LOVE birds!  Especially the songbirds.  And because songbirds are beautiful, it's difficult to imagine anyone disliking or hating them, so of course, other people believe that these so-called bird lovers are, in fact, on the side of the birds. They believe that they're on the up-and-up but you and I know better.  We can see through their feathers as if they were gossamer wings.  MOUSES!

These so-called bird lovers write long diatribes about songbirds being killed by the thousands, if not millions, by cats.  They write to newspapers and magazines and when on-line, comment on each and every like-minded Facebook posting they can find.  They often exhibit almost troll-like behaviour.  Some even do 'studies' although, IF we were to study those doing the studies...

Hmm...  Well let's see...  Why not?  Why not study the bird haters, themselves.  Let's put them under the microscope for a change.

Unfortunately, none of them will actually fit under my microscope as it's less than one foot tall. MOUSES!

But we can still study their behaviour so that cats and peeps out there can see the bird haters for what they are.

These bird haters claim - as loudly as they can - that the number one cause of death to songbirds is cats.  Either house cats who are allowed out or feral cats who live outside.  They pull various statistics out of their hats and if not wearing hats at the time, ears, and complain bitterly about the atrocities being committed by cats.

Now let me tell you, I have NEVER ONCE seen or even heard of a cat committing an atrocity.  People on the other paw...  MOUSES!

What the bird haters fail to mention are all of the other studies.  Studies done by very reputable scientists.  Studies that have found that the use of chemicals such as pesticides, habitat loss, pollution and global warming, to name a few, play huge roles in the demise of the songbird.  HUGE roles, for sure.

I have proof of this in my very own garden.  Proof.  PROOF POSITIVE, for sure.

My peeps don't use any chemicals in the garden.  Not a single one.  No chemical fertilisers or herbicides and there is not a pesticide to be found.  In other words, my peeps aren't poisoning the birds directly with chemicals, nor are they starving them to death by killing all the insects that insect-eating songbirds need to survive.  MOUSES!

And for the birds who prefer to eat seeds or fruit, Peep #1 plants things that will feed them, too. There are crabapple trees and roses and russian olives for fruit.  Then that hedge thingy she calls a ladybug bush because she doesn't know it's real name but the ladybugs like it a lot.  It was there when the peeps moved in and spreads like a weed but produces tonnes for seed for the chickadees. She even grows honeysuckle for the hummers.  MOUSES!

Birds need shelter, too, so my peeps make sure there are plenty of shrubs and trees.  Some really high and some not so high, so as to provide a little variety.

Now here's the proof part.  Even though I live in a multi-cat household and we cats are all allowed outside in our own garden, our yard is FILLED WITH BIRDS.  You should hear them when they're all in song.  It's like a symphony.  A symphony of song. Peep #1 says she hears way more birds in my yard than in any of the other yards around.  MOUSES!

So how can this be?  The evidence in my own backyard flies in the faces of the bird haters and their so-called studies they enjoy bandying about. FLIES IN THEIR FACES!!!

If it's true that cats are the number one killer of songbirds, then my backyard is an impossibility. The bird haters say you can't have both birds and cats at the same time and yet, WE DO. MOUSES!

There are, however, no mice.

The reason why my yard is possible is because my peeps have managed to eliminate two of the real killers of songbirds, pesticides and habitat loss.  She provides homes for the songbirds with trees, grows food for them, doesn't kill off the insects that are a necessary food source for many and doesn't poison the birds, either.  Take away those two real bird killers and she has created a garden filled with song.

But peeps, as a species, tend to want to do the easiest thing possible and they NEVER want to accept responsibility, especially when it might adversely affect their own behaviour.  Thus, their tendency to blame cats.

IT IS MUCH EASIER FOR PEEPS TO BLAME CATS FOR THE DEATH OF SONGBIRDS THAN TO CHANGE THEIR OWN WAYS.

And this is why I believe these so-called bird lovers are really bird haters, in disguise.  By blaming cats, people have no reason to change their own behaviours even though the behaviours in question are the TRUE KILLERS of birds. But if peeps don't make the necessary changes in their habits and practises, THE SONGBIRDS WILL DIE.  You cannot find a solution without first identifying the problem and the real problem is people, not cats.

Some people must really hate birds a lot to allow them all to die simply so that they can continue to live as they please.  To continue to pollute the environment, cut down all the trees, use tonnes of chemicals in their yards and not put a stop to global warming.  How selfish, indeed.  MOUSES!

they want to do WHAT?

They want to do what?

And these peeps got elected?  Really? ON PURPOSE?

Wow.  Peeps will elect just about anyone these days and yet my brother, Nissy, never got his appointment to the Canadian Senate.  MOUSES!

If you've been on-line in the last few days, you've probably heard the big news.  It's all over the net.  It's everywhere.  There are on-line petitions about it and everything. Cats and peeps from around the world are all talking about David Cameron's government introducing the Psychoactive Substances Bill in the House of Lords on May 28th.  A bill to apply across the United Kingdom.  A bill that has the potential to ban catnip.  That's right folks, the UK government wants to ban the nip.

WHAT ARE THEY SMOKING?

Turns out, they may have been smoking the nip.  MOUSES!

Panic was raging across the Internet.  What, no nip for cats who are Brits?  When a moggy can't get his paws on a little nip, the world has gone to you-know-where in a hand basket.  And what is a hand basket, anyway?  Perhaps it's a basket in which to carry your nip.

Terror was rising across the land for fear that the country had gone all to pot.  Would backyard nip growers have their nip plants confiscated?  Would Scotland Yard coppers be racing around the British Isles, breaking down garden fences and ripping out home-grown nip plants with their bare paws?  I mean, hands?  Would British prisons be filled to the brim with little old ladies who had been caught supplying knitted nip mice to local church bazaars?  Would peeps really be doing time at Her Majesty's Pleasure for doing nothing more than growing a little catnip for their feline friends?  And would their feline friends ever come to visit them in prison?  MOUSES!

The Psychoactive Substances Bill will prohibit the production, distribution and sale of new psychoactive substances such as...  wait for it...  NIP.

According to several Internet sources, it has been confirmed that the term psychoactive substance does apply to Nepeta cataria.  I can't track down exactly who confirmed this but word on the street is that it was someone in a governmental position.  My question is this...  What was he smoking because I'm pretty sure it was a whole lot stronger than the nip.

Have they all gone off their trolly?

Or maybe it's all a ploy made by politicians to get some international late-night television coverage. I can see it now...  You can't prove it was nip in that pipe.  Okay, fine.  I smoked a little nip, once, way back in college, but I NEVER inhaled.  MOUSES!

As you can imagine, the moment I heard about this catastrophe in the making, I got right on it.  I did a little digging.  No, not in the litter box.  I dug around on the net.  The Internet, to be exact.  I read a whole bunch of stuff including the entire Psychoactive Substances Bill.  All forty-eight pages of it and let me tell you, it nearly put me to sleep.

But reading the Psychoactive Substances Bill confirmed my worst fears.  Indeed, it will be "an offence to  produce, supply, offer to supply, possess with intent to supply, import or export psychoactive substances."  Breaking the law will result in stiff fines and up to seven years in prison.  Seven years.  Do you have any idea how long that is in cat years?  MOUSES!

No production means saying goodbye to having a little patch of the nip growing up against your garden wall. And no sales means that pet stores can't stock nip on their shelves.  Gosh, you won't even be able find knitted nip mice at local car boot sales.

Thankfully, simple possession of the nip is not covered by the bill.  Guess they don't want to throw a bunch of nipped-up moggies in prison with hardened criminals like...  you know... WEASELS.

But I couldn't get rid of this nagging feeling.  The feeling that considering nip to be a psychoactive substance was as barmy as barmy can be.  CRAZY.  Nissy would have said it was crazier than a squirrel making nut pies kind of crazy and I have to agree.  MOUSES!

Now urban legend does say that catnip can make a peep high.  Not high as in up on the cupboard shelves kind of high but rather, high as in being nipped.  But this, my friends, is nothing more than an urban legend.  Apparently, peeps once believed that smoking banana peels would do the same thing which caused a brief shortage of bananas in Berkley, California, back in the day.  Need I say it?  MOUSES!

On the other paw, consuming nutmeg and poppy seeds, can make peeps high.  Oh yeah, they don't want catnip on pet store shelves but will they get rid of eggnog and poppy seed bagels?  Probably not.  Peeps are a very hypocritical species, you see.

Catnip is never going to make a peep high but it can affect how they feel.  The active ingredient in nip is nepetalactone which can act as a sedative.  A very mild sedative.  Like drinking a glass of warm milk.  Or reading the entire forty-eight pages of the Psychoactive Substances Bill all at one go.  Believe me, I know.

Are they going to outlaw warm milk and government bills, too?

According to the Psychoactive Substances Bill, a psychoactive substance is anything that when consumed by a peep, affects them "by stimulating or depressing the person's central nervous system."

Now this is interesting because if that makes nip a psychoactive substance, surely chocolate and coffee are as well.  I know first paw that my first peep without coffee in the morning is a very scary peep, indeed.  But pour a pot of the brew down her throat and all of a sudden, she's Little Miss Cheerful.  And as for chocolate?  Never seen a happier peep than a peep who just ate a chocolate bar.  MOUSES!

So I dug a little deeper and I think, my British feline friends, you're going to be okay.  Apparently there are exceptions.  So-called legitimate things that may very well be psychoactive substances but will not be made illegal so as to allow peeps access to their coffee and chocolate, not to mention alcohol, baccy and a few dodgy things.

Currently, catnip is not listed as an exception.  At least not specifically.  I suggest you bombard David Cameron with phone calls and e-mails, demanding that catnip be added to this exceptional  list of exceptions for if peeps can have their nutmeg-laced eggnog and poppy seed bagels, surely a moggy can have a little nip.

After all, it's not your fault that some peeps think smoking the stuff is going to make them high.  I mean, some peeps still think the Earth is flat and others think that the moon is made of cheese. Cheese...  Mmm....  MOUSES!

In other words, some peeps are just naturally nipped and have managed to get themselves nipped without imbibing in catnip at all.

On the other paw, perhaps they were smoking bananas.  MOUSES!

muzzled

"What to do, what to do..."  Lying on the floor of the sunroom, Seville busied himself by counting dust bunnies under a wicker chair. After running out of claws upon which to count them, he gazed about the room, looking for something else to occupy his time.  He watched a lone spider cross the floor in front of him and brought a heavy paw down on top of it, smiling with satisfaction.

"Oh great, Seville," commented Mason as she passed by the room.  "Now it's going to rain."

"Been raining since Sunday, Mason," Seville called after her.  "DON'T THINK KILLING ONE LITTLE SPIDER WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE!"

Bored with dust bunny counting and spider hunting, Seville headed into the kitchen to see if there were any snacks lying about.  Finding nothing but dry kibble in the dishes, he jumped up onto the kitchen island.  "Maybe the peeps left something tasty up here," he thought aloud.

As luck would have it, Seville found a container of grated Parmesan cheese.  He flipped open the lid and knocked it on its side, causing its contents to spill out.  Licking a paw, he touched it to the cheese on the counter before drawing it up to his nose.  He breathed in heavily.  "Mmm...  reminds me a bit of Valerian Root," he whispered.

"Someone mention Valerian Root?" Mason called from the family room.

Seville ignored his sister.  Mason might have the hearing of a parabolic microphone but she also had the memory of a sieve.  She'd forget about the mention of Valerian Root soon enough.

Seville tasted the Parmesan cheese on his paw.  "Delicious," and with that, he licked up all that had spilt onto the island counter.

He then trotted into the family room and hopped up onto the kitty condo.  He would have liked to have taken a nap on the big chair but said chair was occupied by Anderson, who lay there, sound asleep and snoring like a bear.  Peep #1 was on the couch reading and the television droned on in the background.  Seville doubted he'd be able to nap with the noise of Andy's snores and the television but thought he'd give it a try, anyway.

"Er-hm."

Seville batted a paw at his ear.

"ER-HM."

He batted at his ear again and this time, opened one eye.  Before him stood a little grey mouse, clutching a clipboard to his chest.  Seville stared at the mouse.  The mouse stared back.

"Excuse me, Mr uh...  um...  Mr. Seville?  Is that your name?  You're Seville the Cat, brother of Nerissa?  Nerissa the Cat?  Is that correct?"

"I.  Don't.  Believe.  It."

The little grey mouse held out a paw.  "M1 is the name.  I'm here to brief you on the latest happenings in Mouseland.  Please follow me.  Your presence is required."

The mouse then turned on his heal, jumped down from the kitty condo and onto the arm of the big chair, walked right past Anderson who was still snoring, completely unaware of the presence of a mouse in the house, and then down to the floor, where he scampered across the room and into the kitchen.  Seville followed, obligingly.

"Whoa!" Seville cried, stopping dead in his tracks.  The air in what should have been the kitchen had turned thick with smoke and haze.  Coloured threads appeared before his eyes.  They swirled about his head, this way and that.  "Is this some sort of spacial-time distortion?  Like a wormhole?" he asked M1.

"Mouse hole, actually," answered M1.  "Please follow me.  I'm on a tight schedule."

"Mouse hole,  Makes sense," shrugged Seville.  "Then uh...  you must be from the Canadian Cheese Consortium, huh? Nissy told me all about the consortium and all the troubles you've been having with The Big Cheese and stuff." Seville paused for a moment before adding, "I never really believed in any of it before but now..."

"Oh, you can believe it, all right," said M1.  "We're here now.  Please take your muzzle and come this way."

"MUZZLE!" Seville cried with indignation.  "Muzzles are for dogs! MOUSES!"

"Mice," several mice cried, seemingly out of nowhere.  "The plural of mouse is mice."

"Grammar Mice.  Heard about them from Nissy, too.  MOUSES!" and he held up a paw before the Grammar Mice could reply.  "I know...  I know...  MICES!  No such word though, mice.  The word at paw is mouses.  MOUSES!"

The mice sitting in the great hall which Seville and M1 had entered looked at one another, obviously confused by the conversation.

"So what's with the muzzle?" Seville asked M1.

"The Big Cheese has informed us that all scientists, Consortium employees and um... Oh, I have the list somewhere here."  M1 glanced down at his clipboard and started flipping through papers. "All...  Well it doesn't really matter," explained M1.  "Bottom line is, you need to hold onto the muzzle."

"Scientists, huh?  Is this because of my research into Eggbeater-Whisk Time Travelling-Teleportation Physics?" Seville asked of M1.  "But Nissy worked on that, too, and Nissy never said NOTHIN' about wearing no muzzles."

Gasps could be heard from about the hall as Grammar Mice squeaked out cries of "Double negative!" and "He's using Fleaspeak!  HE'S USING FLEASPEAK!"  Seville rolled his eyes.

M1 looked sternly at Seville.  "There's no need for that kind of language here, Mr. Cat."

Seville looked down at his paws.  "FINE.  But I'm not wearing this muzzle and there's no way you can make me."

The little grey mouse nodded in agreement before adding, "The muzzle isn't required to be worn.  It's merely a symbol.  And it's not because of your teleportation physics thing.  It's because the last time Nerissa the Cat was here, he used the words..."

M1 scampered right over to Seville and climbed up on one of the big cat's paws.  Standing as high on his tippy-toes that a little mouse could stand, M1 beckoned for Seville to lower his head.

Seville eyed the mouse.  Was this some sort of trick?  Some sort of mousicidal entrapment?  An attempt to tempt him with a mousy snack?  He lowered his head while forcibly clamping his jaw firmly shut as to avoid temptation..

"Global Warming," M1 whispered under his breath.  "We are forbidden to use those words here or anywhere else within the Big Cheese's control."  M1's eyes darted back and forth, making sure no one had heard him but Seville.

Then all of a sudden, loud noises could be heard at the other end of the hall.  The Big Cheese was making an appearance.  Wearing a long golden robe, he glided down the centre of the hall, majestically.  Scurrying alongside him were two smaller mice, Masters Pomp and Circumstance, according to the name tags they wore.

Seville used his free front paw to lift M1 by the tail, up and off his other paw.  Setting him down on the floor he whispered, "What's going on?  What's with the...  the...  the whatever is going on over there?"

"Just watch and listen, Mr. Cat," said little M1.  "And remember.  Remember all that you see here today for sometime in the near future, you'll need to draw upon this information to solve the greatest unsolved mystery this land has ever known."

Seville's eyes grew wide in amazement.  "You mean, who let the dogs out?"

M1 slapped a paw to his forehead.  "Not that, cat.  I'm talking about the case your brother was working on.  The conspiracies at play in the Canadian Cheese Consortium.  Watch and listen, cat. One more piece of the puzzle lies before you."

The Big Cheese was less than a tail's length away from him now.  Seville could smell ripe cheese on his breath.  He wondered how Nissy had been able to resist the temptation to...

"THERE you are," and Peep #1 scooped Seville up and into her arms.  The kitchen lights shone brightly, causing him to squint his eyes.  "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this empty container of Parmesan cheese on the kitchen counter, would you?" the peep asked.

Seville blinked slowly and looked around.  The mice were all gone.  M1 and The Big Cheese were nowhere to be seen.  No sign of the Grammar Mice, either.

Pushing his head up against the peep's chin, Seville began to purr loudly.  He needed some time to think.  Think about all that he had seen in Mouseland and also to come up with an excuse for having eaten an entire container of Parmesan cheese.  An excuse or better yet, someone else to blame.  Hmmm... If he could track down just one of those mice...  Mice were known for their love of cheese.  Brilliant. "MOUSES!" he squealed with delight.

And as if coming from inside the walls of the house, Seville could hear cries of, "Mice.  The plural of mouse, is mice."

"Darned Grammar Mice," Seville muttered under his breath.  Luckily for him, the peep hadn't heard the mice over the loud noise of his purr.