shake that cat

All things small, furry, and large of cheek

Had I known I'd be spending part of my day chasing several small rodents around my office, I might have paid closer attention to the article in today's New York Times on the use of Gambian giant pouched rats as mine-detecting service animals.

The local rodent manifestation was no fast-moving lone critter creating disturbance on a four-mouse scale. This was four mice, discovered nesting in a box in my office, four I could point to and count as if they had little rugby jerseys on, "mouse number one, mouse number two, mouse number three, and whoops, there goes number four, leaping out of the box and making a run for it."

Had I been more alert to the business opportunity, well, gnawing on my door, I would have given each one a tiny trumpet, an itsy-bitsy Sousa march score (maybe just the dogfight section of Stars and Stripes Forever), and a teensy picture of Dizzy Gillespie. I would have had all eight mouse cheeks pooched out in no time, and the cheek owners would have been off to Mozambique as gainfully-employed ordinance disposal experts before the week was out.

Instead, mouse one, mouse two, and mouse three are now free-range mice, roaming the office parking lot. Mouse four is still on the lam. Probably playing the blues harp somewhere, his cheeks unaltered.