Well, it seems that Jack’s penchant for aged cheese, mousetrap-aged a good three weeks longer than Tillamook’s usual style, was his demise.
I was in the kitchen near the utility room when I heard the snap, then some furious scratching and what sounded like another snap, but must have been Jack slamming the trap against the metal furnace body in his final throes.
I called my husband, who was across the river picking up some brake line supplies at NAPA, and told him it sounded like it was over for Jack, and suggested that, if at all possible, he might hasten his errand. I couldn’t think of cooking meat with Jack’s remains in the house. He returned very quickly, and soberly transported Jack to an appropriate receptacle out of doors.
Where was my fearless cat, the end product of millennia of breeding of swift, spring-loaded feline hunters and catchers of mice? Where was my cat, whose highest emprise was once to catch spiders and deposit their trophy legs on my bed for mere approval? Was he scratching fiercely at the furnace panel, trying to alert me to intruders? Was he desponding that the trap nailed the mouse just as he, Coolidge the Bigness, was preparing to pounce?
Coolidge was neither scratching nor desponding, but was in fact sleeping. My camera roused him slightly, something the mouse had failed to do.