To quote Elton John, "The Bitch is Back."
In this case, the bitch is the mouse.
At approximately 5:30 a.m. CST, I went to get Spence after a particularly lovely night of sleep. (No, actually it was lovely...no sarcasm here.) The fatal mistake? I left the bedroom door open after returning.
Enter Byron the Cat with a mouse tucked in his jaw. A mouse that was decidedly not dead.
A typical Tom and Jerry scene started to play out in our bedroom. Except Tom had an ally.
As the mouse started to dart towards my breast pump, Dave jumped up and started to toss junk out of Byron's way. I grabbed the boy and skittered out of the room. Dave locked himself in the room with Byron and "Jerry."
Safe in the playroom, Spence and I were playing the 'make a tower, knock it down' game and shaking the maraka. No worries, Dave kept us in the loop with a barrage of text messages.
Message #1: "6:04 a.m.: It's a cage match now. Mouse grows tired, cover diminishes. It knows a larger predator is on the scene." One that may or may not be wearing pants.
Message #2: "6:10 a.m.: I almost want to leave. Exhaustion tugs at me but solidarity will see me thru." A tuffle. Footsteps.
Message#3: "6:27 a.m.: Hunters together. He looks east. I look west." A severe picture of Dave's profile juxtaposed with Byron lazily lounging on the carpet was attached.
Message #4: "6:34 a.m.: My weapon." A picture of my school binder. Great.
Message #5: "6:42: Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide." With a picture of our (now) bare floor. I shuttered to think of all of the neatly folded clean clothes that had been folded on our floor.
More footsteps and Dave's excited voice. I hear him charging down the stairs in triumph. "The game has been caught! The mouse is dead!" In the end, it was Dave, not the cat, that killed the quarry.