Oh, mousie, how loved you are. Hours pass, gazing deep into your beady button eye (the one that’s not chewed off). A hint of your inner jingle sets hearts and paws aflutter.
It is agony when mousie cannot be found. Olivia Wigglebothum’s obsession is now my training. Every day, sometimes multiple times a day, we must hunt for mousie. The hunting grounds are underneath a storage bench in the Happy Morning Sunshine Time room because mousie scoots around really well on the floor there.
I suspect that I have stored bricks in this bench, but I obediently pull it away from the wall so Olivia can dart behind it to look under it for mousie.
She stands up against the edge of the bench, looks at me wide eyed, and uses her very best kitten pitched cry to break my heart. I move the bench. She darts. From behind the bench she vocalizes with purrs, burrs, and squeaks. They all sound like questions.
If she sees mousie, she frantically shoves her paws under the bench either pulling mousie to her or shooting it out the other side. If there is no mousie to be seen, I must convince her that it’s ok to put the bench back in place. Mousie will be there another day.