House of flying mice...

Wherever we take him Arcadio manages to cope, inventing new games to pass his time whether in a hotel room, rental cottage, or new abode.

During our month in wintry Prague a few years ago, where he was confined alone in a small apartment for long periods, he amused himself by energetically chasing a shoestring dangling in the empty bathtub, invigorating his sport by dragging down and hiding beneath the bathmat from time to time.

Under similar circumstances in Paris he patiently sat for hours in our front window, staring down onto the Seine to watch the passing ‘bateaux mouches’ – Parisian sightseeing boats – craning his little neck to and fro like an ardent fan at Wimbledon as each one floated in and out of view.

Over the years he has imaginatively adapted to the many places we’ve stayed, creating interesting roosts in flowerpots, old chicken coops, the rafters of barns, wicker baskets – anywhere he can hide, feel safe, snooze in an unmolested state for a time. 

He has adjusted admirably to La Placette Haute; indeed, we think he loves the place as it offers complete freedom to roam the woods, meadows, orchards, and in and out of various structures on his own. We have noted a few of his new favorite haunts: underneath a huge boxwood bush, in the crawl space above the old bread oven, in the laundry hamper when rain keeps him indoors.

His main, self-appointed task, however, has been ridding the property of mice and moles - there was ample evidence of them when we first moved into the house, and the lawn was riddled with unsightly mole burrows.

A cat’s usual patience and good hunting instincts have been rewarded – there is a nary of mole hole left and the house mice, at least, seem to have been vanquished. Thus Arcadio’s new – and for us, unsettling – nightly amusement is fetching field mice into the house and setting them loose in order to chase them around our bedroom floor.

This wee hours racket wakes me immediately and, no matter how sleepy I may be, I must switch on the light, hop from bed, take up a dustpan and whisk, and attempt to re-capture Arcadio’s victim as it scoots madly to and fro.

After about a half-dozen of these late night capers, I am getting better and better at scooping up the poor, scared creatures and flinging them (mercifully?) out the open window onto the grass lawn below. I do wonder how they feel, these flying mice, soaring through the air – and can only hope they find a soft landing at the end of their flight.

The cat is annoyed by my intervention, of course, but the most irritating thing for me is seeing that Francesco – despite the noise, tumult, and light – has slept serenely through it all.