Owls, Mice and Cats

Ouch.

It is indeed a cold world out there when it comes to selling a book. You make the economic sacrifice to send books and press kits out to independent bookstores and ask them for a few hours of their time to allow you to meet their customers and try to sell a few books which they take 20-40% and when they say no, well I graciously thank them and move on. Then because I have notices coming to me from online book sellers letting me know when my book is available, I find out the bookstore owners have the audacity to sell my complementary book on the open market for $12.90. Bookseller: Harbor Books LLC, Old Saybrook, CT is one such place selling my book on abebooks.com.

When the guy at Johnny People’s Garage in Wilton, NY wanted a copy of my book I just gave him one and asked that he send $18.00 to me later. Maybe he will; maybe he won’t. But the RV has now passed NY State inspection for another year.

Rodents

Squirrels or mice (I vote for mice) were building a nest in one of the drawers in the RV. Building material – foam. Tiny bits of foam carefully stuffed inside a roll of duct tape. What a mess. Can’t find where they found the foam. But at least the RV started, so they had not chewed through the wiring like they did in June.

The count now is eight—seven alive and one dead. The last one I dumped outside at 12:40 AM. I prefer not to kill them. Dad would prefer to “squash ‘em” as he has put it. At first, he thought it was the same one returning to the basement. No way dad. That would have to be either the stupidest or the smartest mouse alive. In either case, if it was the case, it deserved to live.

Phoenix sits for hours on the shelves near dad’s work bench. I have never her seen get a mouse, but I suspect that is where they are. Once she catches one, she brings them upstairs. I don’t know why she does this because when I hear the tell-tale sound of squeak-squeak, I am quickly on the trail to catch the mouse before its destruction, normally done by Diablo, as she has a less than delicate way about her bite.

Phoenix lets the big-eared little mouse go to admire its scurrying manner across the hardwood floor in the living room. Over the past two weeks I have perfected my mouse trap. I take her prey’s release as an opportunity to toss a large round opaque tupper ware over the rodent. The mouse runs in circles around the plastic container while the cats stalk around the perimeter. Meanwhile I retrieve a piece of cardboard to slip under the cage, flip the package over and I confess I admire the little creature. Many times, despite being within moments of death before my rescue, they take time to preen their tails or wipe their noses.

Dad would dispose of them with shovel to the head, but I think that is harder to execute than said. I trap and release, relocating the mouse across the road in hopes it doesn’t return or get into the RV, but instead travels westward and enter the Heron’s home where it might endure the winter in the cozy comforts of someone else’s house.

The other night while I crossed the dew soaked grass with my mouse package I heard an owl. Three hoots from deep in the woods. I paused, listening for it to repeat its call. Hoot, hoot, hoot.

Shit, I think Phoenix has another mouse. Dad says from now on we kill’em. Well, I’m not doing it.