Cowboy logic beats mouse in the house
That chubby little mouse who used to visit us every night around 10:30 p.m. will scuttle no more across the living room floor.
A friend of ours, Jack, put an end, once and for all, to its shenanigans.
Let me fill you in a bit on Jack.
Never debate him. You will always lose. Ya, he’s smart, but that isn’t the reason you will lose. He is armed with the best interrogation and information source in the world. It’s called cowboy logic, and there’s just no way to talk your way around it. You can know you’re right, have about a thousand pounds of evidence to prove you’re right, call up 10 witnesses to defend your position and somehow, someway you lose the danged argument anyway. Then you sit there with your chin dragging while he says, “You following me now?”
When it comes to fashion, Jack is most comfortable in cowboy boots, but some days he will dress up in sandals, pairing them with his woolies. Tres chic. His standard head wear is a black cowboy hat with silver buckles. By the way, he isn’t one of those you-know-what on the inside of the boots cowboy. He’s the real deal. He’s ridden bulls, worked on a ranch and loves to hunt.
Maybe the most important thing to remember about Jack is you should never dare him or challenge him, cause he’ll see your dare and raise you a box of Milwakee (preferably the one with the slinky little brunette on the can) and a shot of Sambuca.
That’s kind of what set off this adventure. Somehow Jack took the presence of that chunky little mouse as a challenge, and not one to be taken lightly.
The first time Jack set his sights on taking out our chubby little mouse, he showed up at the trailer about 10 p.m. and set himself right in front of the microwave stand armed with a knife (uh, ya, I said a knife) and a keen-eyed glare.
About two minutes later he growled out, “Where’s that mouse?”
Did I mention he lacks considerably in the patience department? Anyway, the longer he waited, the more growly he got. He even crumbled a bit of bread in front of the stand in an effort to draw the little critter out. Unfortunately the four dogs in the house – none of them much bigger than one of Jack’s cowboy boots – thought he was treating them to an evening snack which created more ruckus and incited a lengthy tirade of cussing from one disgruntled cowboy. About the same time the mouse scuttled sidewise out from under the stand and disappeared down the hall with Jack in hot pursuit.
“Mouse wins,” I said as he stomped back.
Then I got the keen-eyed glare.
A few nights later we were having a coffee and chat while the rest of the house slept when Jack heard a scuffle under the fridge. He went rigid. His face stiffened. That Clint Eastwood glare returned to his eyes.
I knew right then it was him or the mouse that night. Only one would survive.
He ordered me to get a flashlight while he commenced jiggling the fridge to and fro. I did, just as the mouse scuttled out then fled back under again. Lickety-split Jack jumped up and grabbed a metal spatula from the set my best pal – and mouse-phobic – Darby hangs on her wall. Then he hunched down again, commanded me to hold that light steady and began shaking the fridge around. The mouse made one last scuttle and – swat, swat, swat – was off to mousy heaven.
Then Jack took a look at the spatula and told me we could never tell Darby he’d used it to kill a mouse. We both knew this was a very important secret to keep, because if she ever found out she would chuck that tool in the trash likely while holding it at arm’s length with a paper towel. Then she’d probably disinfect the trailer.
I made a solemn vow to keep that cowboy’s secret as he sterilized the spatula and put it, once again, in its proper place.
“Now who wins?” he asked me with that cowboy cocky grin. And he kept asking until I begrudgingly answered him.
“Jack wins,” I sighed.
He crowed like Peter Pan and tossed up his hand for a high five.
A few days later he confessed to Darby he killed the mouse with the spatula and left me, who’d been solid with that little bit of information, hanging.
“Well, I can’t lie,” he said. “It was bugging me.”
Darby is taking it all pretty well, by the way. Except every time we go somewhere she parks me in mud puddles and thanks me for always having her back.
And Jack? Well, there’s no challenge too big or too small for a cowboy, I guess. And one of these days I mean to kick his butt in a debate.
Well, as soon as I can figure out a way to circumvent cowboy logic.
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