Our Little MouseCat-eer.

I'm not yet sure whether I'm writing about BatCat or Mozart here.

I suppose it started with BatCat.  The other morning I was feeling quite ill after running some errands and Mme. Child had offered to oversee the Boy for a couple of hours.  I stopped home to get some scallops for her - I had bought them two days earlier and with the aforementioned illness, I was not about to fry 'em up, so they were going to Mme. Child as well.  I park the car, run in the house, get the scallops and notice BatCat on the stairway.  She had a mouse.  Per usual, she had not killed the poor soul, but instead let it down and batted it about for a minute.  I freeze, stare, and scamper around the kitchen trying to find a container that I can put the thing in.  I do.  I catch the thing (it was alive, but apparently injured/in shock enough so that it wasn't moving too fast), and go to the far corner of the yard to let the thing go.

I thought briefly that perhaps I should take it someplace far away from the house so that it didn't try to get back in, but I just didn't feel well and was already past when I'd told Mme. Child I'd be there.

Fast forward to the next evening.  I was feeling much better, though the Boy and I hadn't had any real playtime.  We'd gone to pick strawberries, sure, but he still needed some run-around time.  Instead of a sit-down dinner, I made him an elaborate snack (including several freshly picked strawberries, of course), and let him play in the yard while eating on the run.  I know, I know, not the best habit, but I figured he'd go down easier if he ran around a bit and we didn't have time to sit for a meal and run around.  So he's out there munching away, running around, inspecting rocks, munching some more, riding his trike, munching some more, inspecting the grass, munching some more, and telling me about the cute little mouse.

WHAT?!

Oh, yes.  That mouse did exactly as I suspected it would do.  It headed back to the house.  Unfortunately, it's injuries were too much for it and it succumbed to it's end right in the middle of Mozart's play area.  I screeched, "Don't touch it!" and for the second time that weekend scampered off to find something I could carry the thing in.  And thankfully Mozart did not touch it, but he did want to, "Keep it?"  I told him no, definitely not, it had to go.  "Where?" he asked.  And I said something to the effect of, a journey to heaven, or the like, as I tossed it into the trees.

Thankfully he did not ask further questions, but I realized that he is not to the age when he will start asking more difficult questions, and I'll have to explain things like death, love and war.  *sigh* He is growing up.  I am in awe every day by what he is saying an thinking and doing.