He starts in the litter box…

So. We have this tomcat who is the terror of the neighborhood. He stays out all night, comes home with the occasional limp and paws that need to be rewrapped after his bruising prizefights.

Can he be bothered to hunt down the mouse who has made our lives so annoying the last two days?

No. The mouse walks right in front of us. Begins at the litter box. Sashays across the rug. Gets in between the components of the stereo and stretches out for a nap. Goes underneath the door into the bathroom and acts like we’ve alarmed him when we go for a pill or a pee.

Boldly, we sentenced Elliott to spend the night in the media room, door closed, to finish off this menace. Five minutes ago, I saw Mr. Mouse in the bathroom again. Grrrr.

He’s fast enough, predatory enough, and brutal enough. He’s just not interested.

Time to go nuclear.

Muffs just got drafted. She doesn’t care either.

And then the super-nuclear ultimate option: Scottish Deerhound.

He sees the mouse, he wants the mouse. Waste of time. No energy for mouse play.

Guess we’re going to have to buy a trap.