I was raised on a ranch in South Texas. We had a large number of working cats that were loving pets to me. They held the position that cats have held in agriculture for thousands of years: rodent control. Sue, a solid black, averaged several kills per days when she had a litter of kittens to feed.

We grew corn and hay to store it for feed for the cattle during the winter. One August day Dad and I had to clean the leftover of last year's corn crop from that barn, to make room for the new crop. We stored it dry, on the cob, still in the shuck. That made it the perfect nesting place for rodents. Now pitchforks in hands Dad and I began to scoop the last of the old crop out of the barn and into the wagon to be thrown to the cattle. Somehow the cats knew what was going on and took up sentry stations in and around the barn. Wild, (He was actually as tame as all the rest of the crew but I had named him that anyway.) who was a yellow tabby, took a position amid the straw where his yellow, deeper yellow, tiger stripes made his seem to vanish. Sue settled into a deep shadow becoming one with it. The others all found places to become as invisible as a cloaked Klingons, and just as deadly. Every few minutes one of our pitchforks would bust open a mouse nest, sending now evicted tenant dashing for safety but finding the jaws of terror. Cat!!!

My pitchfork was the next to flush out a freeloader who started his run for one of the mouseholes along the wall. Sue's side. Her game. The other cats held positions as Sue raced in. The mouse seeing her vectoring in knew that he wasn't going to make it to the mouse hole and in a flash if inspiration saw another sanctuary from the approaching doom. It ran up the inside of Dad' s trousers!!!! Dad leaped into the air, swatting at his legs. Now he jumped from one foot to the other, slapping his legs, hollering, and stamping on the floor, trying to get rid of his guest. If there had been a fiddler present it would have been a fair barn dance. But the mouse wasn't leaving. He had seen what was outside. Poor sue had stopped short and now leaped back a few feet from him, then sat watching the spectacle. Finally Dad dropped his trousers to his ankles, swatted and them some more, and the mouse burst forth. Sue didn't care. She sat there amazed, looking at Dad, undoubtedly thinking, "People are so strange. Let a mouse jump on my leg and I'll show them how to handle that."

Deprived of his harbor and seeing the black terror still between him and the nearest mousehole, the mouse dashed to a different one on the other side of the barn. Bill's section. His game.

Hope you enjoyed this little story from my boyhood.

Copyright © Wayne D. Cowey
May 22, 1998