The matted old cat has cancer. Four years past his fighting form there is less drama. At 17 he sleeps a lot, shits and pisses where he wants and smells a little like a teenager's room. He no longer has the teeth for mousing. His defective thyroid used to make him a highly motivated killer and now he just mewls like a baby for more geriatric formula spooned from a can. He's no longer packing heat. Mice and rats, emboldened by his soporific state, poke around the fringes of the yard and only care slightly that anyone is watching. The sun is shining and it is compost season. Plenty to eat and what to fear? Eagles and owls circle the sky miles away and coyotes stay out of the fenced in yard. The dog is a joke. The squirrels unwittingly run interference and the dog's obsession with them ensures she remains oblivious to their increasing numbers. They breed like a cliché and shore up their nests in the pink insulation of the garage walls.
The man is washing the dishes and spies a rat bobbing its head up and out of the grass. A rat leaves a strong impression if you've never seen one in your yard before. The next day he returns his lawnmower to an alcove in the garage and pauses for a minute to savour the quiet cool shade. He scans the bric a brac and says to himself, "this place is such a mess". Scritch scritch scritch and out pops a little head from out of the particleboard header. A furry brown teardrop shaped body follows it. The mouse looks right at the man from just above head height, turns its sparkling black beads upward and wheels back into the wall. Its no rat but the man is faced with a choice. Let it be and risk damage and disease or send the mouse family a message. The cat is out of commission and has left the job to someone who does not revel in his predatory status. This is the first time he has made the trip to the hardware store to buy mousetraps. He has to get the young woman behind the counter to demonstrate how to set them. As he places little bits of Granny Smith green apple brushed with peanut butter on the triggers he is very careful to follow her instructions. He licks the peanut butter shrapnel from his fingers and pops a bit of the apple in his mouth. Note to self, "this is really a perfect snack". The grisly specter of what will transpire when the spring is released begins to play in his head. He places three set traps, oh so gingerly, on a hardcover children's book that sits handy on the kitchen counter. Ridiculous serendipity dictates that the book is "Goodnight Moon" and the mouse is the muse for the innocent years of his own kids. He thinks of the mouse in the book and all the love and affection that has been directed its way as he carries the the thin red volume like a car hop tray out to the garage being careful not to jiggle the traps. He places them solemnly near the spot where he had his chance meeting with the real mouse. The walk back to the house is punctuated by two long sighs and one quick look at the threatening sky. Reflection leads to 3 beer and then smoothly runs into insomnia. This is not his job. With the cat it all made sense. This is not his place in the cycle of things. This is not about the food chain. Damn the cat for getting old. About ten years earlier he arrived home late at night to find the cat batting a small gray mouse around the front yard in the moonlight. The cat held the mouse's tail down with one casually outstretched paw while laying in full splay on the dewy dark lawn. This was the playtime part of the kill. The man bent down to see if the mouse was dead and saw its tiny rib cage heaving, at a hummingbird's pace. Exhaustion and fear radiated beyond what should be possible for such a tiny body. As their faces came closer together the cat stared hard into the man's eyes. His giant pupils were black saucers with a moon glow centre. He was purring.
So much was communicated at that instant. "You thought you knew me intimately but you know nothing. This is the real me and this is my world. You will never be part of it". Tonight the man thinks, "You were so right cat. You were so right".