There's a little rat in my kitchen--well, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and call him a mouse--who seems to be on the road to becoming tame. At first, upon seeing me, he would run like he was being chased by the devil, but nowadays he seems to become ever more nonchalant, as if saying to himself "Meh, it's just that same guy again. Why get in a sweat?'
I was sitting at the table in the yard the other night and I noticed little scraping, tapping noises coming from the nearby cupboard. So I opened the drawer, and sure enough, there he is, just sitting there staring at me. Not running this time, no panic, no bother. "Peep?" he says.
Now, I'm not conversant in rodent language or in any of its dialects, but I have the feeling that, combined with the mildly put upon expression on his face, Peep? may mean 'Would you please close the drawer so that I can go back to my business in private?'
Later that night, I saw him again--this time tiptoeing across the tops of the spice containers. Upon seeing me, he rather unconvincingly 'fled' to the hose which connects the stove to the gas cannister and serves as his stairway from ground level to mezzanine and second floor--and I swear, he kind of shook his head as he went, as if to say 'Okay, okay, I'll play your game--Yikes! A Man! I'd better run! Blah, blah, blah.'
I'm not at all a fan of rats, or of mice, either; but this little guy is becoming so familiar, his presence so predictable, his attitude so polite and civil, that killing a pest begins to seem the same as murdering a neighbor. In short, he has become the mouse rather than a mouse--as if he were somehow my mouse!
And I'm pretty well certain that this is his plan.
I was sitting at the table in the yard the other night and I noticed little scraping, tapping noises coming from the nearby cupboard. So I opened the drawer, and sure enough, there he is, just sitting there staring at me. Not running this time, no panic, no bother. "Peep?" he says.
Now, I'm not conversant in rodent language or in any of its dialects, but I have the feeling that, combined with the mildly put upon expression on his face, Peep? may mean 'Would you please close the drawer so that I can go back to my business in private?'
Later that night, I saw him again--this time tiptoeing across the tops of the spice containers. Upon seeing me, he rather unconvincingly 'fled' to the hose which connects the stove to the gas cannister and serves as his stairway from ground level to mezzanine and second floor--and I swear, he kind of shook his head as he went, as if to say 'Okay, okay, I'll play your game--Yikes! A Man! I'd better run! Blah, blah, blah.'
I'm not at all a fan of rats, or of mice, either; but this little guy is becoming so familiar, his presence so predictable, his attitude so polite and civil, that killing a pest begins to seem the same as murdering a neighbor. In short, he has become the mouse rather than a mouse--as if he were somehow my mouse!
And I'm pretty well certain that this is his plan.
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