Maybe he just has big feet. The presumed mouse who’s been doing training runs along the outside of the furnace ducts under our house has begun tapping. Tap. . .tap tap. . .tap tap tap. . .Tap. Coolidge, never a mouseslayer, sleeps through the tapping with comprehensive indifference. Only a very special cat can accomplish this.
Maybe Ernie is not a mouse. Maybe he’s a squirrel—or a small antelope. His clackety pacing does seem to suggest hooves. Happily, our vents are steel, and not readily breachable. Unhappily, steel very readily transfers sound.
The 28.4 mph wind provides orchestration for Ernie’s exploration. Ernie is a self-contained opera. How terribly avant garde of him.
Clicking through the wind gust history on our weather station’s indoor monitor, I note our highest recorded gust was 111 mph. I don’t know when this occurred, but Ernie may need to pick up his pace to keep up with the music.
The stove fan flaps with the wind unless I turn it on, which also makes noise.
And so, quiet loses, again. I’d rather be reading Victor Hugo’s Toilers of the Sea. . . .