By Anne Sullivan
It was a beautiful morning and I had been trying to get Sylvia to budge from my comfortable chair and go outside. “Sylvia, you’ve become absolutely obsessed with The Lost Adams Diggings. You think of nothing but gold, not even food.” I must note that her breakfast was untouched.
“Don’t bother me. I’m reading my book,” she mumbled from the depths of my chair.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I was under the impression that it was my book, especially since I purchased it as well as the chair you’re sprawling in.”
“Don’t confuse me with petty details. I’m too busy trying to make us rich.”
“Rich isn’t everything, young lady.”
“That may be so, but it’s far superior to being poor.” Sylvia observed, not for the first time.
I stood over her, scolding, “You talk of nothing but gold. It’s very boring. You don’t even mention your operation anymore.”
“What operation?” Sylvia glanced up from her book to ask.
“I don’t feel I know you anymore, Sylvia. The way you went at that squirrel under the house; you could have killed it.”
“That was the idea. I would have killed it if it hadn’t escaped, the dirty rat. But look who’s calling the kettle black, Miss Hypocrite.”
“I beg you pardon. I have never been violent.”
“What do you call it when you go after mice with the flat end of the ax? You’ve even taken to keeping the ax in the bedroom.”
“I call it putting them out of their misery. I only hit the mice that are caught in the sticky traps.”
“Let’s get to the bottom of this ethical question,” Sylvia said in her best district attorney
manner. “Who put the sticky traps there for the mice to get caught in?”
“Well, I did, of course, but it was after yelling at them to get out of my house. I played fair. I told them what would happen if they ignored me, which they have consistently done. I’m just defending my territory, something anyone would do.” Around here in my lecture Sylvia vacated my chair and went over to her food dish. She slurped away at her Iams while I continued, “I don’t enjoy killing mice but I really don’t enjoy sharing my bedroom with them. It’s not just one mouse. It’s all their aunts, uncles and cousins. They’re eating my DeCon like it’s candy. And every day there’s another one in the sticky trap. If anyone has a better mousetrap, I’d like to hear about it.”
“What about the cats?” Sylvia asked. “They could earn their keep for once.”
“I can’t really have them in the house for longer than a minute or two. You know I’m allergic. That aside, I tried bringing RingWorm in once a few years ago, and she just lay on my bed and pretended the mice weren’t there, just like you do. As for Gordo, he’s so wild, he’d probably get stuck in the sticky traps himself.”
“It’s not that I mind you killing them,” Sylvia said. “I’ve never had much use for mice myself. Mickey and Minnie are OK, but they do honest work in comic books and movies and even at Disneyland, but the rest of the mice kingdom i just moochers. I could never have a mouse for a friend.” She paused for a moment before adding, “I suppose you think I’m prejudiced.”
“I’ll join you in the prejudice. Come into the bedroom and hold the plastic bag while I tip the latest trap and its deceased occupant into it.”
“Then what happens to it?” Sylvia asked.
“It goes into the trash with its relatives. Good riddance.”
“I don’t know, Boss. You say you don’t know me anymore but I can say the same of you. I never pictured you as a killer.”
“It’s not a role I fancy but it’s them or me and I paid for this house and I pay the taxes on it.”
“ I suppose it’s all right but you needn’t criticize me concerning my handling of the two-faced squirrel that was stealing our gold.”
“Here,” I proffered my hand and Sylvia extended her paw. “Shake on it and hand me the axe.”
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