Mousassin

The house I live in is hundreds of years old.  Certainly one, plus change.  You can tell because the basement floor is made of dirt.  Which is fine, but old houses like this are particularly prone to mouse visitation.  My preference is to not have mice but since I'm a Buddhist, it wouldn't do to be killing a bunch of them.

So, as a way of sidestepping that thorny issue, I'm now a cat owner.  Owner is the wrong word, though, since I have to give it back in six weeks.  I guess I'm renting the cat, although renting is the wrong word since no money is exchanging hands.  I suppose I'm just watching the cat for six weeks, although watching is the wrong word since I haven't seen the cat since it arrived.  I have, however, seen little turds in the litter box, so I know it's in here somewhere.  Although his food hasn't been touched.

Maybe it's eating mice.

The cat's name is Connor.  Which I originally decided was a lousy name for a cat so I decided to call him Mr. Pickles.  Which is perhaps why he's hiding.  Regardless, after reflecting on the fact that the cat's primary mission in life is to kill mice, a mousassin if you will, Mr. Pickles seems like a bad name; one that diminished its warrior spirit.  So I've renamed the cat JohnConnor (as in The Terminator), said as one word much the way that Indian kid called the tiger RichardParker in Life of Pi.  Like it was one word.

I'd post a picture of JohnConnor, but that's not happening right now.

What's that famous book by Peter Mathiessen?  Something about a Snow Leopard?  That's what it's like around here right now.

Mathiessen, it should be noted, is the only person to win the National Book Award for both non-fiction and fiction.  Which ain't chopped liver.  I very much remember reading Far Tortuga a long time ago.  It was one of those great boat books like Heart of Darkness and Spartina, just to name two.