The past couple of nights, the Daytona five hundred has been going on in the attic right above my bed. Except on foot, not in cars-that-are-actually-advertisements, and with mice as the contestants, not weird men in colorful jackets.
I lie down and settle into my pillow when chchchchchchchchchchchc sounds above me. A pause. Then sscchhhssccchhhhsscchhh back across. Then there's a few victory squeaks.
After several minutes of this, I am tempted to go up there and ask who won. I mean, I'm pretty involved by this time. I feel truly connected with the runners, their trials, their dreams, and their achievements.
But runners really isn't the right word. They don't run. They scurry and scritchscritchreallysuperduperfast and bustle, and you can hear their little toenails rattttttaaattttaattt-ing on the boards. That is, I'm assuming it's their toenails. Who would have thought that mouse toenails could make such a very loud, annoying noise?
I wonder if the spectators have little flags to wave for their favorite, or if they sell popcorn on which to snack while the races progress. If they do, I'm so totally going up there tomorrow night. Because popcorn made by germy, fleaish mice? What's not to love?
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3 comments:
You have my deep appreciation. I've been in a Beatrix Potter mood, and "Tom Kitten" is probably my favorite story.
If I were you, I'd offer to babysit for Irene so she could have a night off to watch the races.
Good idea, Heather!
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