Story by Terri McPherson
When I was about ten-years-old, I spotted a mouse running across our living room floor. My four younger siblings heard me screeching at the top of my lungs and joined me on the couch, where my father found us standing, yelling and pointing.
Dad grabbed a broom and chased that mouse all over the place. We followed him in hot pursuit, cheering him on, “Get it, Dad. Get it!”
Finally, the mouse was corned, but when Dad pushed the broom into it, the mouse let out a little squeal. All five of us jumped our father. We pulled at his arms and legs, “Don’t hurt him. Let him go!”
Dad dropped his head in defeat. He pulled the broom away and the mouse scampered off. “Run,” we yelled. “Run.”
My father looked at us like we’d turned into a brood of numskulls. He bought a trap the next day.
Ray, my husband, and I live in the country. Our garage is kept free of field mice by our outdoor cat, Snickers. Her mother was a great mouser and taught her baby well.
I was in the garage the other day, when a mouse ran across the floor. I froze. Snickers was sleeping in her bed, so I whispered her name to get her attention. She had the mouse in a nanosecond.
Then…. I heard the squeal. “Let it go,” I yelled. When she refused, I ran into the house to get my husband.
“Snickers has mouse!”
“No. You’ve got to save it!”
“I’ve got to what?”
I watched through a crack in the door as my husband donned a pair of work gloves, took the mouse out of the cat’s mouth, walked it out to the field, and let go. When he came back, he bent down to pet the cat and told her she was a good girl for catching the mouse.
Opening the door all the way, I thanked him. Both my husband and the cat looked up at me. They had a familiar look on their faces. I’d seen that look before. It was the same one my father had on his face, all those years ago….