Whiskers and the Button Eyed Mouse

Whiskers and the Button-Eyed Mouse

Whiskers had been awake for six minutes, and already the mouse had committed three suspicious silences.

It sat beneath the coffee table, exactly where it had been left the night before, with its gray felt body slumped to one side and its stitched black eyes looking nowhere in particular. Its pink yarn tail curled like a question mark. Its tiny red ribbon, chewed into a ragged fringe, lay flat against its chest.

Too flat, Whiskers thought.

He crouched behind the leg of the sofa, belly low, tail puffed to twice its size. His whiskers trembled forward. The morning light came in pale strips through the blinds, drawing tiger bars across the living room carpet. Dust floated. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Somewhere beyond the front door, a truck grumbled past.

The mouse did not move.

That was exactly what worried him.

Whiskers had learned, in his short but highly eventful life, that the stillest things were often the rudest. A sock could appear dead for hours and then attack when dragged by a human foot. A blanket could sleep innocently until it swallowed toes. The round silver bowl in the kitchen pretended to be empty before suddenly filling with thunderous dry food.

And the mouse...

Whiskers narrowed his green eyes.

The mouse had moved yesterday.

Not rolled. Not fallen. Not been batted. Moved.

Whiskers had been lying beside the bookshelf, washing a back paw with the solemn focus of a surgeon, when the mouse had scooted across the floor by itself.

By itself.

It had gone skitter-skitter-skitter from the edge of the rug to the middle of the room, and Whiskers had gone straight up into the air, landed sideways, knocked over a slipper, and fled behind the curtains. From there, he had watched with one eye as the human, Mara, made the bright barking sound she made when she was pleased.

Mara had picked up the mouse and said, “Oh, Whiskers, you silly little detective.”

Detective.

Whiskers did not know the word, but he understood tone. Mara’s voice had sounded soft and amused, the way it did when he fell asleep with his face in the laundry basket or tried to bite rain off the window.

But Whiskers knew what he had seen.

The mouse had moved.

And if it had moved once, it might move again.

So now he was checking.

He crept one paw forward. The carpet whispered under his pads. He paused.

The mouse did not move.

He crept another paw.

Nothing.

Whiskers leaned his head left. The mouse looked the same.

He leaned his head right. Still the same.

He backed up two steps, just in case the mouse was waiting for him to get comfortable.

Still nothing.

This, Whiskers decided, proved nothing.

He sat down abruptly and began to wash his chest, because important surveillance required one to appear casual. His eyes never left the mouse. Lick. Lick. Check. Lick. Check. The mouse did not twitch, but Whiskers noticed that its left ear was bent in a new way.

Had it been bent that way before?

He stopped mid-lick, tongue still sticking out.

No. Maybe. Possibly.

He had to get closer.

Whiskers moved in a half-circle around the coffee table. He did not blink. The mouse did not blink either, but that was because its eyes were buttons and buttons were notorious liars.

From the kitchen came the clink of Mara’s mug. “Morning, Whiskers,” she called.

Whiskers flicked an ear but did not answer. Some mornings he answered. Some mornings he threw himself at her ankles and demanded tribute. Some mornings he sang the Empty Bowl Song even when the bowl was not empty, because a bowl could always be more full.

This morning was different.

This morning there was a case.

Mara padded into the living room with her coffee, hair piled messily on top of her head. She wore the blue robe with the dangling belt ends, which Whiskers considered excellent prey. But even the robe could not distract him today.

Mara followed his stare to the mouse.

“Oh,” she said. “Still watching it?”

Still? Whiskers glanced at her sharply.

The human knew.

Mara smiled over the rim of her mug. “You’re not going to let it win, are you?”

Whiskers’ tail gave one hard thump against the carpet.

Win? The mouse had ambitions?

Mara sat on the sofa, tucked her feet under her, and opened the flat glowing rectangle she loved more than sleep. Whiskers would normally have climbed onto the rectangle immediately to save her from it, but he could not abandon his post.

He edged closer to the mouse until he was near enough to smell it.

Dust. Fabric. A faint ghost of catnip. His own spit.

No magic.

No heartbeat.

Still, he lifted one paw and tapped the mouse’s tail.

The mouse rolled over.

Whiskers flew backward so fast he collided with the sofa.

Mara made the barking sound again. “Oh, buddy.”

Whiskers froze with all four legs stiff. His heart hammered so loudly he was sure the mouse could hear it. The mouse lay belly-up now, showing its pale seam. Innocent. Vulnerable. Ridiculous.

Whiskers knew a trick when he saw one.

He waited.

One minute passed.

Then two.

Mara’s fingers clicked on the glowing rectangle. The wall clock ticked. The heating vent sighed.

The mouse remained upside down.

Whiskers slowly sank into a crouch.

He checked the windowsill. No wind.

He checked the ceiling fan. Still.

He checked Mara. Her hands were on the glowing rectangle, not the mouse.

So the mouse had moved because Whiskers touched it.

That was acceptable. Expected, even. The world could follow rules sometimes.

Whiskers stood a little taller. He took three bold steps forward and smacked the mouse again.

It spun.

He hopped back, but only a little.

A thrill went through him. He smacked it harder. The mouse skidded under the coffee table.

Whiskers chased it, pounced, wrapped his front paws around it, and gave it the fierce bunny-kicks of justice. The mouse gave no resistance. Its ribbon crumpled. Its tail flopped. Its button eyes stared.

Whiskers stopped.

Too easy.

He released it and backed away.

The mouse lay there, defeated.

Unless it was pretending.

Whiskers checked again.

Mara sighed, warm and fond. “You really don’t trust that thing anymore.”

Trust was a big word for a small kitten, but Whiskers understood the shape of the problem. Yesterday the mouse had broken the oldest agreement between kitten and toy: a toy moved when Whiskers moved it. A toy flew when Mara threw it. A toy hid when it was shoved under furniture.

A toy did not simply decide.

That was the line.

Whiskers settled down in a loaf position two feet from the mouse. He tucked his paws under him, but not too far. Ready paws. Responsible paws.

He watched.

After a while, Mara went to the kitchen. The kettle hissed. A cabinet opened. Something crinkled.

Treats.

Whiskers’ ears rose.

The mouse remained still.

The treat bag crinkled again.

Whiskers looked toward the kitchen. Then back at the mouse. Then kitchen. Then mouse.

This was how villains operated. Distraction. Temptation. Crinkly bags.

“Whiskers?” Mara called. “Snack?”

Snack was also a big word, but Whiskers had mastered it completely.

He rose, took one step toward the kitchen, then stopped and whipped around.

The mouse had not moved.

He took another step.

Still nothing.

He reversed direction, dashed back, sniffed the mouse, tapped it once for record-keeping purposes, then sprinted into the kitchen so fast his back feet nearly overtook his front.

Mara had placed three small treats on the tile. Whiskers ate them in a blur. Then he hurried back to the living room.

The mouse was gone.

Whiskers stopped so suddenly his hindquarters slid.

Gone.

Not under the coffee table. Not beside the rug. Not near the sofa.

Gone.

His fur rose from neck to tail. His pupils widened until the room grew sharp and enormous.

Behind him, Mara made a tiny sound.

Whiskers turned.

Mara stood in the kitchen doorway with one hand over her mouth. Her other hand was behind her back.

Behind her back.

Whiskers stared.

Mara stared back with the round, guilty face humans wore when they had knocked something off a counter and blamed “gravity.”

Slowly, very slowly, the pink yarn tail appeared near her elbow.

Whiskers gasped without making a sound.

Betrayal had a tail.

“Mara,” said the other human voice from the hallway.

Eli had appeared, half-awake, in socks and a wrinkled T-shirt. He took in the scene: Whiskers bristling in the living room, Mara hiding something behind her back, three treat crumbs on the kitchen tile.

“What did you do?” Eli asked.

“I was just moving it,” Mara said. “For fun.”

Whiskers did not know all the words, but he knew just. He knew fun. Humans used those words when explaining why they had put hats on him.

Eli looked down at Whiskers. “You’ve created a problem.”

“I created enrichment.”

“You created paranoia.”

Mara brought the mouse out from behind her back and held it by the tail. Whiskers crouched instantly.

The mouse dangled.

A hanging mouse was a different kind of threat. Less sneaky. More airborne.

Mara lowered it to the floor. “See? It was me. I moved it yesterday. I moved it just now. Mouse is innocent.”

Whiskers did not approach.

Mara pushed the mouse gently across the tile with one finger.

It slid a few inches.

Whiskers watched her finger.

Mara pushed it again.

The mouse slid.

Whiskers looked from the mouse to Mara, then to the mouse, then to Mara’s hand.

Something clicked into place, not like the door latch or the food bin lid, but inside Whiskers’ bright little head.

The mouse had not moved itself.

The human had moved it.

This should have been comforting.

Instead, Whiskers realized the case was much larger than he had feared.

Because if Mara could move the mouse when he was not looking, then the mouse could move any time Mara had a hand. Mara had two hands. Eli also had two hands. Four total hands in the apartment, not counting guests.

Whiskers sat down.

This required a system.

For the rest of the morning, he followed the mouse.

When Mara set it on the rug, Whiskers lay beside it and placed one paw on its tail. When Eli tossed it into the air, Whiskers leapt, caught it against his chest, and carried it under the dining chair, where he could interrogate it privately. When Mara put it in the toy basket, Whiskers climbed in after it and sat among the balls, springs, and feather sticks with the solemn expression of a judge.

Every so often, he checked the humans.

Hands visible? Good.

Hands in pockets? Suspicious.

Hands under blanket? Emergency.

By noon, Whiskers had missed two naps and half of a sunbeam. He was exhausted, but duty had a weight, and that weight was shaped like a gray felt mouse with button eyes.

At one o’clock, Mara sat cross-legged on the rug. “All right,” she said. “Peace offering.”

She placed the mouse in front of Whiskers. Then, slowly, she lifted both hands high in the air.

Whiskers stared at her.

Both hands.

Visible.

Empty.

The mouse sat between them.

Still.

Mara kept her hands up. “No tricks.”

Whiskers stepped forward. He sniffed the mouse. He sniffed Mara’s knee. He sniffed the air around Mara’s hands, just in case hands could leave an invisible hand behind.

Nothing.

He touched the mouse with his nose.

Still.

He placed one paw on its back.

Still.

He sat on it.

This, he decided, was best.

Mara laughed softly. “Fair.”

The sunbeam had moved to the center of the rug, warm and golden. Whiskers remained planted on the mouse, but his eyelids began to droop. The apartment settled around him: the low murmur of Eli’s meeting in the other room, the soft tap of Mara’s fingers, the distant buzz of a lawn mower outside.

Under him, the mouse did not move.

Whiskers pressed his chin to his paws.

He would only rest his eyes for a moment.

Just a moment.

When he woke, the sunbeam was gone.

The room was dimmer. Mara had left the sofa. Eli’s meeting voice had stopped. Somewhere, water ran through pipes.

Whiskers blinked.

Then he felt it.

The mouse was not under him.

He sprang upright.

The rug was empty.

Whiskers spun in a circle. No mouse. He looked beneath the coffee table. No mouse. Beside the sofa. No mouse. Behind the slipper. No mouse.

His tail puffed.

He raced into the kitchen. Mara was at the sink, washing a mug.

Whiskers chirped sharply.

Mara looked down. “What?”

He chirped again, louder, then sprinted back to the rug and stared at the empty spot.

Mara followed. “Oh no,” she said.

Oh no was never good.

Eli emerged from the hallway. “What happened?”

“The mouse is gone.”

Eli glanced at Whiskers. “Did you move it?”

“I didn’t.”

“Did he?”

They both looked at Whiskers.

Whiskers stared back, offended.

Mara crouched and searched under the coffee table. Eli lifted the edge of the rug. They checked under the sofa, behind the basket, beside the bookshelf. Nothing.

Whiskers helped by checking the same three places repeatedly at high speed.

The mouse was gone.

Truly gone.

For the first time all day, the humans looked confused too.

Whiskers stopped in the middle of the room.

A new thought unfolded inside him, terrible and magnificent.

Perhaps the mouse had moved itself after all.

Not while watched. Not while touched. But during sleep. During weakness. During the soft, helpless dark behind closed eyes.

Whiskers gave a tiny growl.

Eli turned on his phone light and knelt beside the sofa. “Wait.”

Whiskers darted over.

“There it is.”

A gray shape huddled deep beneath the sofa, nearly invisible in the shadow. The mouse had somehow slipped under the low gap, far beyond paw reach.

Whiskers flattened himself, stretched one leg under the sofa, and hooked empty air. The mouse remained just beyond him.

Mara fetched the broom.

Whiskers stepped back, trembling with anticipation.

With one careful sweep, Mara drew the mouse out.

It emerged covered in dust, its ribbon crooked, its button eyes blank and shameless.

Whiskers pounced.

He seized the mouse by the neck and dragged it away from the sofa, away from Mara, away from Eli, away from all gaps, shadows, hands, and suspicious furniture. He carried it to the safest place in the apartment: the little bed by the radiator, where he slept at night curled into a comma.

There, Whiskers dropped the mouse.

He circled it once.

Twice.

Then he lay down on top of it.

Mara came to the doorway and leaned against the frame. “Well,” she whispered to Eli, “at least he found it.”

Eli whispered back, “I’m not sure found is the word. That’s custody.”

Whiskers closed his eyes halfway.

Custody sounded right.

The mouse would be checked at sunset. Again after dinner. Again before bed. During the night, if necessary. He would monitor its ears, its tail, its location, its relationship to gravity, and any suspicious changes in ribbon angle.

But for now, it was warm by the radiator. The humans were quiet. The mouse was pinned.

Whiskers rested his chin on the dusty gray body and began, very softly, to purr.

He still did not trust the mouse.

Not completely.

But he trusted his paw on top of it.

And sometimes, for a kitten in a large apartment full of moving mysteries, that was enough.