The Mouse That Roared

(With apologies to the 1955 movie of the same name, starring Peter Sellers.)

There is a colony of mice living in the supply box high on the wall of the milking room.  I hear them rustling around as I tend to the milking.  Once in awhile, one or more will climb up inside on the chain that holds the drop-down door to pop their head out the opening and watch me work.  They are generally a peaceful, harmonious group.  I have no idea what happened yesterday to upset the status quo, but it all went to hell in a handbasket.  It could be that a war had broken out between factions and a general was sounding the war cry and shouting out orders, but I imagine that the children had gotten on the mother's last nerve and she was giving them what-for in no uncertain terms.  At any rate, one mouse was yelling at length at the top of its lungs and I could hear others ducking for cover.  Having blown off steam, the mouse that roared settled down.  In my mind's eye, I could see little mice with their faces to the corner as they waited for Mama's storm to pass.

Inga, spraddle-legged and moving slow, came in to be milked.  Once again we had the conversation (lecture) about cause and effect, but I don't hold out a lot of hope there.  I suppose I could learn to throw a lasso, but first I'm going to buy a collar for my wayward girl, something to grab when she comes within range.

A couple of years ago my niece and her husband left sunny New Hampshire and visited here when we had a snow storm.  My friend from rain-soaked Seattle is arriving, expecting sunshine, just as heavy precipitation is predicted next week.  Go figure.