Legs Eleven And A Mouse In The House.

Last night Millhouse, with a keen sparkle in his eyes, kerplopped through the catflap; his fur in spiked style from the rain and a squeaking mouse in his whiskery choplettes. With proud ceremony, he dropped the poor mite on the floor as though seeking marks for presentation. But the mouse, of course, immediately seized his chance and made under the kitchen cupboards. It was 2.00am so there was no human around to observe this flagrant flouting of the house rules. Shrieking would have ensued, no doubt, followed by doors closing, sticks poking and dustpans clanging. But on this occasion, it was only Millhouse who crouched and dabbed here and there. I suspect Mr. Mouse is still shredding newspaper and arranging his new home somewhere very nearby. However, by daybreak it had become obvious to the humans that something was afoot because Millhouse was still repeatedly sticking his nose into every nook and cranny around the base of all the cupboards. This will provide him with some amusement for the next few wintry nights I expect.
I nonchalantly watched from my bookshelf nestled in the legless position. Yes, sometimes we have no legs. Humans seldom get the hang of our ability to transmogrify. For cats have an infinite number of legs ranging from 0 to twenty of so. In racing car mode we even have two rear wheels and either two long front legs outstretched or maybe instead we'll be sporting a little bra discreetly to the front. When curled in a ball in spare tyre mode, we may have no legs at all or, there again, five or six sticking out all tangled up like a badly folded deck-chair. Then, when hurriedly trotting down the road you'll see we surely have at least twenty legs and more. That's what evolution's all about, methinks.
Now, in the living room the garden's crept indoors in the form of a spikey tree. I vaguely remember what this means; sparkly things to play with and eventually a turkey lunch! Millhouse can have the mouse.



Herky