Kevin (erf_) wrote,

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mousy mousy squeak squeak

Either the Brooklyn Tribe Obies are getting used to me, or I am getting good at parties. Either way, I had more fun at Julia Doctoroff's 23rd last night than any party I have ever been to ever. No standing alone with a beer in the middle of the room looking awkward--just warm fuzzy social interaction with familiar people my age. My, what a difference knowing people makes.

I love humans! I love humans so, so much.

Ever since I found that dead mouse yesterday morning I've been seeing dead mice everywhere. I spotted a couple of fuzzy gray lumps underneath the subway track last night. I wasn't close enough to tell whether they were mice or round pieces of random subway detritus, but they were without question the exact same color, shape, and size as the mouse that had died in my apartment. Now this discovery didn't faze me as much as I would have expected--the subways are heavily rodenticided, after all; one expects to find dead mice in the tunnels--and instead I found myself marvelling at how well camouflaged they were. They were exactly the right color. If I hadn't been looking closely I wouldn't have been able to tell that anything was there at all. I don't know whether New York's subway mice evolved to blend in with the tracks, or whether the tracks just happened to be made of the same color of native Manhattan schist that the mice had evolved to blend in with, but oh, how wonderful it is that the subways are teeming with cute, near-invisible, semi-intelligent creatures. That they are routinely maimed and slaughtered by other cute, near-invisible, semi-intelligent creatures--cats--somehow doesn't bother me at all.

Which brings me to my third encounter with dead mice that day! On my way home, down the street from my apartment, I saw a little black cat scratching at a door and meowing plaintively. Poor little bugger must have been cold--it was freezing outside, almost frostbite weather. It would pace back and forth a bit, trying to warm itself up, and then go back to the door and start scratching and meowing again. By the doorstep was half a dead mouse, which the cat would pick at forlornly, with adorable brutality. A gift. In a more sober moment I would have been torn between sympathy for the poor kitty and disgust at what it had done to this little rodent whose species had been beleaguering me with ominous symbolism all day--but I was drunk, and in an inordinately good mood, so I could regard this horrific little scene with nothing more than amused detachment. For some reason I was reminded of junior year, of all the times I made the long trek to Tank with a jar of organic peanut butter in my hands, only to show up at Anna's door and be told by her neighbors thank you, Mario, but our princess is in another castle! I thought about taking the cat home, entertaining fantasies of scratching it behind the ears and whispering "You little murdering fuck. You hellspawn pet of Cain." as it lay purring in my lap, but then I realized it would look really bad if the door opened just as I picked the cat up. So I talked to it instead. The conversation went a little like this:

Me: Mrarrr.
Cat: Meowwwww?
Me: Mrarrrrr.
Cat: Meowwwwww?
Me: Mrr.
Cat: Meowwwww. :(

I can tell it knew I was trying to communicate with it because if I didn't say anything for a while, it would stop and wait for me to answer. Then, after I did, it would meow again. And it never interrupted me, not once. Such a polite little kitty.

I am not drunk anymore but the sun is shining, I just came back from church, and okay maybe I am still a little drunk inside. In spirit, if not in body.

Tags: new york

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