Uh Guh ma mouf huots; Screw the Cheese, Who Moved my Mouse?

Got back about an hour ago from periodontal surgery. As the Dr. promised, the Novocaine is wearing off, and I soon need to decide whether to take another Motrin or break out the Vicodin. We'll see how things go. With the worst pain expected for the end of the week, I'll try to save the hard stuff if at all possible. If I can't hold out, I've got the Dr.'s cell number to call and beg for a refill. I have a feeling my plans for some bass fishing later this week are going to have to wait.

This morning while I was eating breakfast, Pavlov (AKA, the starving cat) walked by the table with what looked like an unusually large hunk of fur in his mouth--in his old age, he's developed a habit of pulling his out. Looking more closely, I saw this hunk of fur had two legs and a tail. He'd caught a mouse, as he does about every other month.

Now, I'm glad he catches them. I hate pulling out a towell from the linen closet and finding it chewed up and covered with mouse turds, or finding an abandoned nest in my sleeping bag when I take it out for the first trip of the year. But when I catch him in the process of killing one, I feel a bit conflicted, especially if the mouse starts to squeal. Shortly after Pavlov passed me this morning, he opened his mouth, let the mouse drop and run a bit, then pounced to catch it again. I wasn't up to watching an episode of grossly mismatched mortal combat, and the mouse still seemed energetic, so I grabbed a plastic tub and trapped it the next time Pavlov let it free. I took it out on the porch and released it. It didn't seem to be bleeding or stunned, though it was quivering like a toddler on eight cups of coffee. It bolted to the far end of our front deck, then disappeared between two of the planks. I can only hope it learned its lesson about coming into our house.

When I came back in, Pavlov was wandering around the living room, apparently confused about where his prey had gone. He looked at me wide-eyed and meowed pitifully, then returned to looking carefully under all the furniture, and behind the stereo (which for some reason is a spot the mice favor for their last stands), inhaling deeply to catch the mouse's scent. He kept this up for a good fifteen minutes, sure it still had to be around somewhere. Eventually, he settled into his usual morning nap spot next to my desk, but stayed awake for an unusually long time, looking vaguely confused and dissatisfied, as if I'd handed him a bowl full of dry food only. At least he didn't seem to be upset at me in particular, a little curious as this is a cat who nurses carefully focused resentments. Maybe he expected that after picking up the mouse I would throw it back to him and play tug of war with it like we do with his other toys, and figured I'd just tossed it somewhere out of his immediate sight. Could be in his eyes I wasn't a mean stepfather, just a boring playmate.

For the rest of the week, while I recover from this surgery, I don't expect I'll be a lot of fun for anybody.