4:36

4:36 is a good time if it's afternoon on a weekday. The workday is almost done and it's time to head home, where hopefully Greg will have a wonderful dinner waiting that's not meatloaf.

4:36 is not a good time if it's morning. That's what time it was today when Rabies the cat started playing with his toy mouse downstairs. I know, I know--we are grateful it's a toy mouse, especially given a news story in the paper this morning about how 'tis the season for mice to move in to your warm, lovely abode and given Dan's story recently about mice visitors. Nonetheless.

I lifted my head off the pillow when he first started playing, making sure it wasn't a burglar or something. Simon the cat was laying on the bed with us, so I knew he wasn't the guilty party. It quickly became clear that it wasn't a burglar because they would never make so much noise.

He made so much noise that I couldn't get back to sleep. Of course, I wasn't inclined to actually get up and try to take the mouse away from him. That would have meant leaving my warm and toasty bed (we turn the thermostat down pretty far at night). Besides, the cats love these mousies.

Greg and the girls cleaned up the living room last night and Greg took the plastic and cardboard package of mice off the mantel, where it's been living for the last month. The cats were so interested in playing with the contents that they started sliding the container around the floor, batting at a package. I couldn't deny my cat some small measure of fun, could I?

The next time he does it at that time of the day, it's the basement for him!