Mellow

“Mellow!” Boris yelled as he darted across the living room at light speed. On the return trip, he yelled again, “Mellow! Come on!” Boris’s tail was just a beige blur against the tan leather couch that I wished I was curled up on. Instead, I sat on the kitchen island and watched the cocker spaniel chase that filthy frightened grey mouse around the house. It had been said that it was my duty as a cat to catch that “thing”. But I’m being honest, I’d rather my tabby grey tail be shaved than catch and or eat a mouse. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Atwood rewarded Boris for any idiotic thing he did, including not pissing on the rug. For me to get a reward, I’d have to save their precious dog from a burning building!

I watched him chase his tail as the mouse ran beneath him, then I yawned, “Eh, no Boris. Keep up the good work, carry on, hang in there…that sort of thing.” There were advantages to Boris being the boss. For one, Boris doing everything meant that he would get the credit. On the surface, it doesn’t sound pleasant for any cat, dog, or even a bird that may be involved in bringing something together to have to observe a useless idiot take all the credit for something they mucked up until others stepped in and saved the day. But there’s a fine line between credit and blame. Borris barked, “Mellow, dammit! Help me!” The mouse shot under the couch and Borris guarded the perimeter. “The Atwoods are not going to be pleased, Mellow!”

I stepped down from the kitchen island onto a barstool and stretched, “I’ve asked you a hundred times if not one thousand—it's Mel. Not Mellow, or Meowlow, and certainly not mangy cat.” A cat’s name is more than a sound one makes to get their attention. No, it’s a status, it should be a single syllable that can be repeated during a yawn. Boris can’t seem to grasp that. Respect is important to me. It isn’t to Boris and that’s where the problem lies. Boris’s upbringing was horrid! I think there was a baby in the house. “Look, you’re doing fine. You’ve got him right where you want him! Good dog,” I said, slapping my tail on the seat.

“Fine,” Borris growled, “Mel! Mel – Mel – Mel! Now get down here and cover my flank!” I was calculating the drop zone below the stool when Boris barked again, “Mel, come on you mangy cat!”

There it was, “Obviously you don’t need me, Boris. You can’t go one shake of a fox’s tail before insulting me.” I began to clean my right paw when the thought crossed my mind, “What are you going to do anyway? Yell at it and hope your bad breath drives it out?” Boris cocked his head and raised his ears, seeming to weigh the prospects of my sarcastic remark.

“No, they eat trash. I’d just get lightheaded trying to breathe on him,” Boris said, laying low and shoving his snout under the couch. “He’s still there, Mel—I can smell him!” 

The suspense got the best of me and I decided to get a closer seat to the action. It was risky being that Boris was prone to darting around blindly, led by his nose, and throwing his destructive tail this way and that way. Landing softly on the floor, I walked stealthily toward Boris and sat beside him. “So, what’s the plan,” I said, startling Boris and causing him to bump his head on the couch.

“Ouch! Don’t scare me like that, Mel! I just tinkled on the damn floor!” Boris growled and sniffed under the couch to triangulate the approximate location of the mouse. 

“Tinkled, that’s cute, Boris. Now, let’s say you have this mouse cornered. How do you plan to get him out? He could be anywhere inside that couch.” The mouse scurried from under the couch and was cut off by Boris’s fascinatingly fast leap to the other side of the couch and then around the chair next to it. His tail thrashed all the Atwood’s belongings from the table beside the chair and knocked over what I then learned was a fragile umbrella vase that crashed to the floor in more pieces than I cared to count. Well, I counted to four and didn’t care to go further. “I don’t think Mr. Atwood cared for that vase. He’ll give you a treat, I’m sure.”

Boris’s head perked up, “Really?” His ignorant grin never failed to give me pleasure. Of course, Mrs. Atwood loved that vase, but I didn’t see a point in reminding him. The mouse hurried in pure terror into the kitchen and onto the counter. Boris’s ears flew violently up as he took out every free-standing structure, chair, and ornamental object between him and the counter in a tornado of yelps, squeaks, flying debris and crashing chairs. From my vantage point, the carnage was magnificent—and I didn’t lift a single claw! “Ah, no you don’t!” Boris yelped, and a metal pan launched off the stove and spun through the air, and wiped out three picture frames on display near the kitchen. Then, the mouse ran back under the couch. Boris panted as he strolled over to me and sat, “Your turn, Mel. Show him whose boss!”

“Sure.,” I said with a sarcastic mew, “I’ll just stare at him with my hypnotizing gaze until he’s paralyzed with fear and drops dead—what do you think about that?” 

Boris raised his head and stared blankly at the wall in contemplation, then he shook it off, “No, that will take hours. The Attwoods will be back real soon! Mrs. Atwood will freak out if she knows there’s a mouse in here—you remember the last time, don’t you?” 

“That was a mouse?” I replied. “I didn’t know that. You know, Boris, she’s scared of everything. Have you seen her open the mail?” I stood and stretched, “I can tell you what I would do, but this is your show, Boris. You wouldn’t want me to take that away from you.” I purred for a second to sell it.

Boris stuck his nose under the couch again, “I’ve run out of ideas, Mel. Let me hear what you got.” His tail wagged when he triangulated the mouse’s position. 

I blinked at Boris and pawed the air toward the top of the couch, “Go in from the top. Plain and simple—total war! Lay waste the anything between you and that mouse!” my predatory hunting muscles twitched. “He’ll want to escape the ravaging, and that’s where I come in.”

Boris looked at me like I was crazy, “Total war? I don’t know that word. Go in from the top? I’d have to chew through the couch and Mr. Atwood would be mad! I’m not doing that!” He returned his nose to guard duty.

I yawned, “Well, you asked.” I slapped my tail on the floor twice and tucked my paws beneath me, “I was just concerned for Mrs. Atwood—those mice really do ruin her day. I think the last one gave her a hairball.”

Boris pulled his head out and gazed at me unsure, “Do you really think the mouse is worth eating the couch, Mel?” 

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I blinked slowly, “What do you think? What will Mrs. Atwood think?” I shrugged.

Boris dropped his ears and huffed, “Get your game face on. Are you ready?” I nodded and prowled low to the end of the couch to block the mouse’s path to the kitchen and Boris climbed on top of the couch. He raised his paw, “When I drop it—go!”

I coughed, “Go where Boris—my job is to literally stand here!” 

“Oh, well stand really quickly!” Boris growled and dropped his paw. He tore through the cushions with an efficient speed that both frightened me and left me in awe! The back of the couch disintegrated like a thousand cats sharpened their claws on it at once! 

“Fantastic, Boris!” I yelled out. 

“The mouse!” Boris reminded me. I looked below the chair and there he was! 

My tail shot up signaling to Boris that I had a bead on him. The little guy darted towards the kitchen and didn’t see me until my paw slammed down on his head, trapping him against the floor. “I’ve got a live one!” I yelled out to Boris who immediately sprung from the destroyed couch, foam and fabric clung to his slobbery teeth, as he landed beside me. It was a disgusting sight.

“Eat him, Mel! Show no mercy! Ahhh!” Boris barked, and I almost got caught up in the carnage. 

Vomit welled up, “Um, no. Mice are disgusting—I’m not eating him. You eat him. Or I can drop it in that toilet thing.” 

Boris glared at me, “You’re a cat. You eat mice. It’s your only job, Mel!”

I glared back, “No. If I must be honest, I have zero jobs. I’m not eating the damn mouse—you do it!” A revelation occurred to me. I could just set it free and let Boris explain to the Atwoods what happened to the couch. Or let the dog have ALL the credit, “Boris, if neither of us is going to eat this mouse, then what do you want to do with it?” He stared at it, tilted his head, then stared some more.

Boris bowed his head, “You’re right. Drop him in the white swirly waters of doom, Mel.” 

I carried the mouse between my teeth and swear I heard the mouse say, “Thank you.” I tasted all the nasty dust and garbage that the mouse ran through. I rose above the rim and dropped him with a resounding “plop” into the toilet and the mouse treaded water until he found a shallow edge to rest. So the mouse couldn’t escape fate, I flipped the seat cover down. 

Strutting back to the living room, I announced to Boris, “Out of sight, out of mind! Not my litter box, not my turd!” As I walked, I was alerted to trouble by shrieks and growls from the Atwoods who just walked in the door. 

Mr. Atwood scolded Boris who sat with his head down in shame, “Bad dog! Look at this!”

Boris whimpered, “Oh dear. Oh. Dear. Bye, Mel! This is it! They’re sending me outside! I’m… I’m not a good boy!” 

I didn’t see the problem, “Did they find where you tinkled, Boris? What happened?” Then Mrs. Atwood’s shrill death scream came from the bathroom.

“Ahh, Mike! A mouse!” Mr. Attwood ran past me to the bathroom. 

“Where?” Mr. Atwood yelled, then the mouse zigzagged past me and into the kitchen. 

 Mr. Atwood wrapped his arms around Mrs. Atwood, “That must have been why Boris tore up the couch. It will be alright. No more treats for him for a month.”

As Mr. Atwood carried Boris’s water bowl and led him outside, I noticed that Boris had put on quite a few extra pounds. “Boris,” I said proudly, “magnificent sacrifice! It will be good for you to shed a few pounds.” Aside from Boris taking everything personally, he really did well at staying on top of things and keeping away the riffraff. It was a shame the Atwoods didn’t know that I was the brains behind his fantastic exploits, but with all their drama I’m glad I don’t run things around here.

The End.