state of disrepair

"Hum-de-dum-de-dum-de-dum...  Hum-de-dum-de-do..." I sang softly, sidling up to Peep #1. "Oh Peepers, have you been in the front hall lately?  I think Mason pooped in your shoe."

"Mason did what?" the peep cried before dropping what she was doing and running into the hall.  In a flash, I was up on the kitchen island and had snagged a brick of cheese.  Heading into the family room, I heard the peep behind me saying, "No one pooped in my shoe, Seville."

"Did I say shoe?" I called back to her.  "I meant litter box.  Sorry," and I waved her off with a paw.

"You told the peep I pooped in her shoe?" Mason cried, paws placed firmly on her hips and looking rather indignant.

"Never mind that, Mason," Anderson told his sister before looking at me to ask, "Seville, did you get the cheese?"

"I got the cheese."

Hearing my answer, Rushton appeared in the room.  "Did someone say cheese?"

The four cats stared down at the brick of cheese before them and began to purr, loudly.

"Gosh that was good," I said, wiping my mouth with a paw.  "Time for a nap, I do believe." Anderson, Rushton and Mason nodded in agreement before heading off to their various favourite sleeping spots.  I, myself, jumped up onto the chesterfield and settled in for a snooze.

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

"Psst...  cat.  Psst...  CAT!  CAT!!!"

I opened one eye to see a little grey mouse before me, holding a clipboard.  "Awww...   MOUSES!" I cried.

"Your assistance is required," I was informed.

"My assistance is required.  My assistance is required?  Of course my assistance is required!" and I flung my front paws up in the air.  "What is it this time?  Someone lose their cheese?" I asked the mouse.

The little grey mouse stared back at me.  "Lose their cheese?" he asked.

"Never mind.  It's just an expression," I explained, rising to my paws.  "Lead the way oh royal mousiness.  Your desire is my command."

Again the little grey mouse stared blankly at me.  "Another expression!" I cried.  "Boy-oh-boy-oh-boy...  MOUSES!"

I watched as the little grey mouse surveyed the family room.  He quickly scribbled some notes on his clipboard and although I tried to get a glimpse of what he was writing, he held that board close to his chest.  Besides, the little I did see told me he was using cursive writing.  Might as well have been in secret code as cursive writing is no longer taught in Nova Scotian schools.  Clearly the Mouseland schools have recognized the shortsightedness of this.

Stopping in my tracks, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was different.  Was it the mouse? No, he looked like all the other Mouseland mice.  Was it the cheese?  Had the cheese I had recently snacked upon been off in some way?  I glanced around the room and saw Mason snoozing peacefully over on a chair.  Nothing had upset her tummy and she had eaten as much cheese as I. Maybe even more.  Clearly, the cheese had been okay.  So why did everything feel different in some way?

"Are you coming?" the mouse asked impatiently and I picked up my pace.  As we rounded the corner, ribbons of light swirled before my eyes as time and space morphed into what I had come to know as the great halls of Mouseland.

I could hear the sounds of construction going on in the back corner of the hall.  Several mice were wielding saws and hammers and goodness knows what else.  The commotion was both annoying and interesting at the same time and I made a mental note to investigate the first chance I got.

A second little grey mouse came running to the side of the mouse who had summoned me and was now whispering in his ear.  Together, they conferred over the notes the first mouse had taken at my house.  The second mouse nodded enthusiastically in agreement.  "Oh yes, yes...  Most definitely yes," I heard the second mouse say.  "That should do nicely."

I stuck my nose between the two mice before asking, "Anyone want to enlighten me as to what's going on?"

The second mouse coughed nervously before saying, "Er-hem...  We're going to need your condominium, Mr. Cat.  It is required."

"IT'S WHAT?" I cried.  "Wait a minute, I don't have a condominium.  I live in a house."  Then it came to me and I knew exactly what the mice were on about.  "You want my kitty condo.  Well no can do, my friends.  That condo belongs not just to me but to my fur-sibs as well.  Besides, moving it requires peep assistance.  No way for cats and mice to move it on their own.  It's too heavy, you see."

I sat back on my haunches, remembering the time Constance had taken a running leap, almost knocking the kitty condo down, thereby moving it without the aid of peeps but quickly decided not to mention that incident to the mice.  That condo was staying in my family room no matter what.

I stared at the mice and they stared right back.  "How come you guys need a condo, anyway?  No condos here in Mouseland?" I asked.

"Our main residence requires repairs," a third mouse answered as he approached.  "It is currently unfit for mouse occupancy."

"That's awful!" I cried.  "Look, I can certainly commiserate with you.  Every mouse needs a house but tell me, how did it get so far gone?  Hurricane?  Tornado?  Flood?  Some other unexpected disaster like a newly purchased high-powered vacuum with cyclonic speed?"

"None of the above," the first mouse sadly shook his head.  "Nothing so unforeseen.  It was simply neglect.  Years upon years of neglect.  Warnings were given.  Warnings were ignored.  Now the residence is practically falling apart.  We're making repairs as fast as we can but," and the mouse pointed to the far corner of the hall where I had noticed construction being done earlier, "as you can see, they won't be completed any time in the near future."

"WOW.  I feel for you, guys.  Really, I do.  Looks like you have a big old mess on our paws but," and I narrowed my eyes, "you're not getting my kitty condo and that's just how it is.  MOUSES!"

The great halls of Mouseland suddenly became deathly quiet and I'd swear you could hear a kitten's whisker fall on a deeply piled rug.

"What can I say, mice?  The condo belongs to us cats.  Besides, I'm not sure if you noticed or anything but it's not in all that great shape, either.  Needs some new carpeting in spots.  Got my paws crossed Santa will take care of that in a couple of months."

"Anyway," and I strode across the hall with an air of determination, "exactly who is to blame for your residence falling apart?  Someone must be.  Someone must be responsible for the neglect.  Make him fix it up.  After all, it's kind of HIS FAULT!"

At that, all the mice began to talk in unison but I couldn't make heads nor tails about what they were saying.  The mice who had been working in the construction area began constructing once more and I crept up behind them.  Suddenly, one turned toward me and put down the hammer he was using.

I peered at this new mouse and licked my lips with a grin.  I even made a sudden move towards him but alas, I couldn't spook him at all.  He stood his ground and smiled back at me, almost knowingly.

This mouse was different from the rest and that was for sure.  He had an air of authority about him and confidence, too, and yet not so overly confident as to be annoying if you know what I mean. He was clearly in charge but not bossing everyone around.

I approached closer, giving the air a good sniff.  "Excuse me, Sir, but you don't smell quite right for a mouse in charge of this place..  I don't smell any of that stinky ol' Gorgonzola cheese at all."  I inhaled even more deeply.  There was a cheesy smell all right but not...  "Cheddar!" I cried.  "You've been snacking on Canadian Cheddar.  Ten...  No...  Twelve-years-old.  Am I right?"

We were nose to nose now, this new mouse and I.  I gazed into his eyes and wondered, could this be The Big Cheese in disguise?

"Of course!" and I slapped a paw to my head.  "You changed your hair.  I should of known.  NICE. Yup, yup...  Very nice hair, indeed."

I turned to the little grey mouse who had summoned me earlier and whispered in his ear, "Get the name of his groomer for me, would you?  I could do with a groomer like that.  He's good."

"So why AM I here?" I asked.  "Anyone know?  Taking my kitty condo is a non-starter but I'll tell you what I will do.  I'll lend a paw with helping to fix up this residence of yours.  What needs to be done first?  Might I suggest you get rid of these Gorgonzola cheese crumbs lying about?"  I picked up a couple crumbs and tossed them out of my way.  "Crumbs like that are gonna stink up the place, for sure."

Grabbing a broom, I started sweeping the area and noticed the mouse with the nice hair heading back to his work, hammering supports together for what I assumed was part of a foundation.  "Seriously, mouse," I cried over to him.  "You really ought to make whoever refused to take care of this mess earlier, fix it up now.  After all, if the place hadn't been neglected for so long, it wouldn't have fallen into this state of disrepair."

And then all of a sudden, just for good measure and kind of on a whim, I cried out at the top of my lungs, the cry of my people.  "MOUSES!" I yelled.  I yelled as loudly as I could.

"Mice," I heard echoing from all four corners of the Mouseland hall.  "The plural of mouse is mice."

"Nice to hear the Grammar Mice Police are still with us," I smirked to myself.  "I was wondering when they'd make their presence known.  Was even kind of missing them, there, for a moment at least. Thought they might all have gone home."

Then back to work I went, sweeping Gorgonzola cheese crumbs off the Mouseland residence floor, surrounded by mice who were busily repairing damaged floors, walls and ceilings along with goodness knows what else.

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..."

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.

the camembert affair

I was lying on the chesterfield in the family room, pondering some of life's great unanswered questions, with the television droning on in the background.

Right at the top of my questionable list was why I called the piece of furniture upon which I was lying a chesterfield and not a couch or a sofa. Who exactly was Chester and what did he grow in his fields?  If smart, he grew nip but truth be told, chesterfields aren't known for their intelligence.  I had no evidence at paw of this Chester fellow havin' grown nip in his fields, at all.  MOUSES!

Lyin' alongside me on said chesterfield was a piece of cheese.  I had spotted it earlier, while waitin' in the kitchen for Peep #1 to give me my meds, and snatched it before she knew it was missin'. Havin' hidden it safely away from any other cats, I now had my opportunity for an evenin' snack, in peace.  I gave it a sniff.  Cheddar.  Yum.  Mmm...

Down the hatch went the cheese and I curled up on the chesterfield and yawned the mightiest of yawns.  The television continued to drone on in the background.

I awoke with a start at the sound of a squeaky voice sayin', "Psst...  Cat!  Are you awake, Mr. Cat?"  Opening one eye, I spotted the intruder sitting next to me on the chesterfield.  He appeared to be the mouse I had previously met known as M1, although truth be told, the mice of Mouseland all look alike to me.

"There's more cheese in the kitchen," I said to the mouse before rolling over in an attempt to go back to sleep.

"I'm not looking for cheese, Mr. Cat.  I'm looking for you.  Your assistance is once again required."

"Awww...  MOUSES!" I cried before slowing standing up on my paws.  "If it isn't one thing, it's another..." I muttered as I followed M1 through the family room and into the kitchen that had mysteriously morphed into the Great Red Hall into which we had both travelled before.

There were rows upon rows of seats and in each seat sat a mouse, one looking just like the next. In futility, I shook my head to clear it.  Didn't work.  Dozens of mice still sat there, staring at me with mousy grins.  MOUSES!

Pursing my lips I asked little M1, "So what has the Big Cheese done this time?"

As if in answer to my question, I heard an approaching commotion.  Peering through the rows of mice and over to the back wall, I saw the Big Cheese, himself, being coaxed out of a cupboard where he had apparently been hiding.  "I'm coming!" the Big Cheese cried with indignation before snatching a piece of Gorgonzola from another mouse's paw.

I narrowed my eyes and looked coldly at the Big Cheese.  He faltered for just a moment before collecting himself.  "Don't look at me like that, Cat," he spat.  "Believe it or not, I was the one who called for your help."

My whiskers twitched suspiciously.  The Big Cheese asking for my help?  Somethin' smelled fishy, for sure.

"Don't look so surprised, Cat,"  said the Big Cheese. "Even I can see where your expertise in these matters might be warranted."

At that very moment the oddest thing happened.  A black limousine appeared right before my eyes, driving straight through the red hall at the greatest of speeds.  It screeched to a halt before the Big Cheese and me and out hopped several staffers carrying trays of crystal goblets filled with orange juice, I do believe.  One placed a goblet in my paw and I noticed that hanging from its stem was a tiny little tag.  Turning it over I saw a price of sixteen dollars. "Sixteen dollars for a glass of..."  I stopped myself short.  Sixteen dollars seemed like an awful lot for a glass of orange juice but then, I had no idea what the going rate of orange juice in Mouseland was.  Might actually be reasonable.  I didn't want to say anything more until I had all the facts.

Mesmerised, I watched the mice from the limo, walking down each of the rows, passing out glass after glass of orange juice to the mice of the great red hall.  My fascination was interrupted by the sound of the Big Cheese's voice.  Apparently he had been talking to me the entire time.  MOUSES!

"And I want you to investigate HER."  The Big Cheese pointed to a little female mouse in the back row.

I padded toward the little mouse who was trembling with fear.  Her whiskers were quivering and her paw shook uncontrollably as she held out some receipts.  "These are all I have," she sobbed.  "I didn't keep every one.  I was told I didn't have to.  Or was I not told that I did?"

But before I could reach said little mouse, my paws hit a wet patch and slid in opposite directions.  I found myself lying in a pool of sixteen-dollars-a-glass orange juice.  "Awww...  MOUSES!"

Several mice from the back row cried in unison, "Mice.  The plural of mouse, is mice, Mr. Cat."

Those darned grammar mice police.

I picked myself up and continued toward the back row but felt something soggy sticking to my now wet paws.  I lifted one only to find it covered in bits of broken cracker.  Looking around, I saw that there were broken crackers scattered all over the floor.  How had I not noticed them before?

There were broken crackers here and broken broken crackers there.  There were broken crackers just about everywhere.  And buckets of ice containing Camembert.  MOUSES!

Why was the Camembert on ice?  Why where the crackers broken?  And why-oh-why did no one else seem to care?

I could feel the Big Cheese pushing me forward towards the little mouse with the paw full of receipts.  I could feel his steely fingers prodding my spine.

Realising he wanted me to overlook the broken crackers and ice cold Camembert and knowing that I couldn't, I spun on my tail and pointed right back.

Before I could question the Big Cheese any further, the second strange sight of the evening occurred.  A pizza delivery car came hurtling through the red hall, driving right through the pool of orange juice and splashing mice in the front row.  "Free pizza!" cried the driver before doling out slices of pie.

"Do you have any with Parmesan and nip?" I asked, finding the aroma quite enticing.

"No nip pizza," he answered, "but all of our pies are partisan."

"No, Parmesan," I clarified.

"Yes, partisan," he replied.

"Never mind," I said, once more shaking my head.  "Thought we were talking 'bout cheeses and pies.  Sorry 'bout that.  MOUSES!"

And once more I heard the cries of those mice sittin' on benches way at the back.  "Mice!" They cried in unison.  "The plural of mouse is mice, Mr. Cat!"

I rolled my eyes, gettin' ready to give those grammar mice police a piece of my mind but decided instead to sit back on my haunches and enjoy a free piece of pie.  "Partisan pizza is actually quite tasty," I murmured, "but would be better with nip as everything would."

Then just as I was about to grab a second slice of pie, the lights in the family room turned on and Peep #1 stood before me.  "Time for bed," she informed me before scooping me up.  I looked around for the pizza man but alas, he was gone.

MOUSES!

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

Please remember that throughout the month of April, a portion of all sales of the book Rescued: The Stories of 12 Cats, Through Their Eyes will go to the wonderful Anjellicle Cats Rescue of New York, helpin' them to help save cats' lives.  You can purchase your very own copy at your local book store or on Amazon by clicking right HERE.  You'll wanna stock up for holiday gift-giving, for sure.  PURRS.

the little chicken was wrong

They said it would bring disaster.  They said the country would go to pot. They said it would cause the sky to fall.  There were even little chickens runnin' all about the place, bobbin' their heads up and down in agreement.  Well my little chicken friends, the sky did fall and the country did not go to pot as previously, had been thought.  MOUSES!

I bet you're all wonderin' what in the world peeps believed could bring wreck and ruin to the country and cause the sky to come tumblin' down.  Why, I'm talkin' about the legalisation of nip, of course.  What else?

Once upon a time, back in the olden days, there was very limited availability of the nip.  There were a few backyard growers, of course, scattered about the country.  Chamomile and mint imbibin' peeps would grow a patch or two of the stuff, usin' it for medicinal purposes and to augment their herbal teas.  If you were a lucky cat, livin' with such an herbal tea lovin' peep, you could sneak out into the garden every now and then and grab a paw of the leaves for yourself.

I'm sure it was a cat who first discovered that while Nepeta cataria might calm and relax the nerves of peeps, it had the exact opposite effect on the superior, feline species.  For cats, the nip gets us...   well...  nipped.

Some of these aforementioned herbal tea lovin' peeps eventually started growin' a little extra nip on the side for the neighbourhood cats.  They would harvest this nip each fall, hanging up big bunches of the stuff to dry on porches and verandas and in barns and whatnot.  This dried nip was then used to make nip mice and biff bags and all sorts of wonderful toys appropriate for kitties of legal age.

Cats in the country and the burbs were in luck for, generally speakin', they had easy access to the nip.  If your own peeps didn't grow it, someone nearby likely did.  But what about city cats?  Where could they get their paws on some nip?  This was a major dilemma, for sure.

It didn't take long before the Weasel Syndicate saw an opportunity to make a profit on the nip-sellin' front.  Those weasels - bein' weasels - would head out to the burbs, sneakin' into the backyards of unsuspectin' nip-growin' peeps each fall.  Not wantin' to do the work of growin' and harvestin' the nip themselves - after all, they are weasels - they would wait until peeps had their nip hangin' out to dry. They would then steal those bunches of nip and take 'em back to the Weasel Syndicate.

Let me tell you what you might have found, a century or so ago...

Picture it, you come across what appears to be a reputable business on a busy city street.  Enterin' said business, you find a dark, smoke-filled room, filled with weasels smokin' whatever weasels smoke and drinkin' whatever they drink.  Weasels laughin' and cajolin', drinkin' away their profits from the illegal nip trade.  After makin' your way through this weasel-infested room, you come to another door.  You give the weasel guardin' said door the password - which you have previously obtained from a secret but highly reliable source, for a somewhat reasonable price, before startin' your investigation - and you are allowed entry.  What lies before you is a scene that brings shock and disbelief.

In this inner sanctum of the Weasel Syndicate you find a brightly lit room with bare white walls and stark, yet sparkling, white floors.  There are rows upon rows of tables and workin' at these tables are weasels, all clad in long white coats and gloves.  The weasels are strippin' the nip branches of their dried leaves, sortin' and crushin' those leaves, weighing 'em carefully and then packagin' them up into little clear plastic baggies.  These bags of nip are destined to make their way onto the city streets where they will be sold to city cats, allowin' them, too, to imbibe in the nip.

Now you might be thinkin' that the ways of the past worked.  Cats were gettin' their nip and the weasels were makin' a little money on the side but in truth, this black market nip trade was rife with problems.

For starters, the weasels were makin' a fortune.  Do you know what a gang of weasels does with the money it makes?  Neither do I but rest assured, it's not good.  After all, they're weasels. MOUSES!

Secondly, the Weasel Syndicate had the city nip markets cornered and there was no quality control.  There was no one controllin' nip quality at all.

Weasels were takin' short cuts left, right and centre.  They were cuttin' the nip in ways that were shortin' their customers, for sure.  Instead of just usin' the leaves and dried flower buds of the nip, they were usin' pieces of stem.  Cats were findin' stems in their nip!  It was outrageous.

And stems weren't the only thing a cat might find in that nip.  All sorts of cheap fillers were bein' used.  Those weasels would cut their stuff with anythin' that even resembled nip.  Peppermint, spearmint and even lemon balm.  Once, I heard tell of a cat buyin' a baggy of nip from some street corner dealer named Jack only to find he had just purchased an old lavender sachet that had been pulled straight out of somebody's grandmother's dresser drawer!  MOUSES!

And it didn't stop there.  The nip market was growin' exponentially and thefts from backyard growin' ops, couldn't keep up.  The weasels had stolen all they could steal from the mom and pop operations and moved onto bigger nip-growin' fields.  Unlike the healthy, organically grown nip from backyard herb gardens, some of these larger fields had been contaminated with all sorts of who-knows-what but the syndicate didn't care.  They just needed that nip.  Their profits were at stake.

Thankfully, at some point, peeps saw a way to bring an end to the weasel monopolization of this black market nip trade with the legalisation of the nip.

In the modern world of today, nip can be purchased almost anywhere.  Health food stores, pet stores and even grocery stores have all taken advantage of the Nip Rush by sellin' nip.  Catnip has become commercialised, for sure.  And the government takes a cut as well.  That's right, my friends, nip is a taxable product.  The government taxes our nip!  MOUSES!

Of course, there are still plenty of backyard grow-ops around.  Almost every gardener worth his or her salt - you might wanna pay attention to that, ol' peep of mine - has at least a little patch of the stuff growin' for the neighbourhood moggies.  But the backyard growers are no longer bein' faced with the constant thefts by members of the Weasel Syndicate.  Oh sure, the Syndicate still exists but as there is no longer a profit to be made with the illegal nip trade, it has moved onto bigger and better things.  I understand they're now breakin' into the businesses of bankin' and politics and whatnot.  MOUSES!

Before legalisation, any cat, anywhere, could buy the nip from a weasel but now, there are controls in place.  A weasel would sell to any kitten weaned from his mama but now only kittens of legal age can get their paws on the stuff.

What's more, a weasel would sell a cat as much nip as he or she could afford with never a thought given to the health or welfare of said cat.  A cat high on the nip can get out of control.  Believe me, I know.  Now with nip bein' all legal and whatnot, cats can get nipped in the safety and comfort of their own homes, avoidin' the possibility of becomin' a public nuisance.  Nothin' worse than seein' a cat all nipped up, pickin' fights with the neighbourhood squirrels.  MOUSES!

The legalisation of nip has made possible its regulation and that really is a very good thing, for sure.

Of course, there were those who once said that the legalisation of nip would facilitate the use of other recreational substances.  Nip today, vine tomorrow.  Well actually, the naysayers might have been right about that.  Even we have a little patch of Valerian root growin' although it's only my brother Seville who likes it.  Stuff smells of stinky feet, you see.  Again I must say, MOUSES!

And now that nip is legal, there are ways to profit from it legally.  I, myself, am lookin' to get into the business of nip farmin'.  Been promised three full-sized plants as soon as the garden centres open in the spring.  I've also been savin' up my money, lookin' for an opportunity to invest in nip futures and as soon as I figure out how to do that, I'll be doin' it, for sure.

While the trade of illegal nip might once have only made it into the crime beats of the local papers, it is now entirely possible that we'll be seein' mention made of nip futures in the financial sections and perhaps even a column or two by a nip editor.  That's right, papers could have nip editors, discussin' the best varieties of nip, best nip toys available and nip sales goin' on.  Basically, discussin' all things nip.  And who better to be one of those editors than me?  I'll be a paw-in, for sure.  MOUSES!