Waiting Breathlessly

Beatrix, missing as of ten minutes ago, was found buckled into her car seat out in the blue Subaru. I waved to her through the glass of the sun room window, and she waved back through the glass of the Subaru's window, grinning like a leprechaun. I wonder if she's imagining herself on an exciting trip. It's been grey in our county for about six days running, so maybe she's hoping I'll come out and drive her to Texas.

My father just sent me an e-mail that began, "Waiting breathlessly for an update on Merwin."

Last night, we heard him. Once again, he appeared only to me, running from behind the piano into the kitchen, from whence we heard, throughout the evening, rustlings and crunchings. We were bombed last night, my eye was dry and felt blasted by desert wind as I stared at my column, which was a jumble of facts that I had no energy to find a form for; Martin was grading a stack of student reflections and he kept groaning, "I don't know how long. . ." The appearance and bustle of Merwin actually perked us up somewhat. He was just starting his day at ten o'clock at night; he wasn't tired; he was feeling industrious and inquisitive. Maybe we could follow suit.

That night, I muttered from my pillow (into which I was dissolving and becoming one): "We've got to get rid of Merwin before he chews through an appliance. I know who's going to be cleaning up his poop, and it's not you."

"I can't just get rid of someone I'm starting to know," Martin said. (Apparently, during my absence this past weekend, Merwin appeared to Martin several times, and it gave him a sense of peace and comfort. For my part, I saw a row of dead, stuffed mice in the Museum of Natural History in NYC and lovingly tried to pick out the one that most closely resembled Merwin. It must have been because they were dead, but none of these mice had the same style or perk that Merwin possesses in spades). "I know him now and I can't just break his neck," Martin persisted. "It feels wrong."

Plans this weekend, then, include finding a "Have-a-heart-trap," in which we will hopefully catch Merwin and transport him to a place of safety. . .far away from our house.

But here's a postscript: Though I appreciate him on a personal level, I'm not too impressed with Merwin as a mouse. Today while rearranging a pile of blankets and pillows in the sun room, I found the remnants of a pretzel and a grape, abandoned by the children some afternoon a while ago, and not too appetizing for a human but pretty darn tasty if you're a mouse.

I know Merwin's been around and goodness knows he's had plenty of unsupervised playtime, but he hasn't touched the unintentional offerings. What is he, a gourmand? Is he waiting for his own cheese platter? A thimble of champagne?

Curious, very curious. . . .