There are things that are eternal, and yet, they get annoy me to pieces.

For instance, the mice.

We give food, shelter and affection to three, count 'em, three cats. Throughout the summer they wreak mayhem on the outdoor critters of the rodential persuasion. It seems as if every time I look at a cat during balmy weather there's a mouse or mouse-like creature dangling limply from their jaws.

Every fall it cools down here. The mice, hitherto happy with the great outdoors, decide to seek warmer climes. Said warmer climes exist within our home. Thus, every fall, we get mice.

Do the three felines to whom I give food, shelter and affection, deal with these mice? No, no they do not. Apparently the indoor intruders are considered domestic mice, and of no consequence. The outdoor mice are imported mice which can be brought into the home as trophies.

Cats are masters of semantics.

So every fall the spousal unit and I have to put newspaper on the kitchen counter (the mouse run of choice) and set and bait mouse traps. I've lost count of how many vermin we've sent to the Big Cheese Factory in the Sky in the last few weeks, but it's a lot. However, for the last couple of days there's been a lull.

I thought the rampage was over.

Then, this morning, I saw the telltale little trail of tiny black um, er, ah pellets that announce that a mouse has traversed my kitchen counter. To add insult to injury, said mouse stripped the food out of the mousetrap without springing the trap.

The spousal unit saw the black clouds over my head and came over to the counter to see what was wrong.

"Look at that," I said, pointing glumly to the trail of mouse poo. "We have another new mouse." As I rummaged under the kitchen counter for my rubber gloves, a rag and some Lysol, the spousal unit contemplated the mouse crap.

"Maybe it's vintage," he said, hopefully.

Now, technically, this could be seen as a slam against my somewhat shoddy housekeeping abilities, but the use of the word "vintage" in such an unexpected context, well it cracked me up big time. Almost helped me forgive the cats for their slacker attitude.

Almost.

In other cat-related news, I finally broke down and bought one of those little plastic pill guns that my three loyal readers have been promoting for years. Why I neglected to do this before is beyond me.

I am now a convert. The pill went easily to the back of Eeny's throat and she never once gagged or spat it back out. I could tell it didn't bother her because after her first experience with the pill gun, she didn't bother to struggle. Last night was her last antibiotic. No complications.

Hallelujah.

Now, if I can just coax my azaleas to bloom . . .

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 382.71 miles