I was provisioning at the supermarket — buying coffee, actually. I can’t figure out how to grow it on the farm.
I walked back to the car and tossed the coffee in the passenger seat before heading to the office-supply place for paper (I suppose I could make that here, but I’ve got to draw the line somewhere). As I was walking past the passenger door of my aging vehicle, I looked down. There, sitting on the curb, wide-eyed and looking back at me, was a mouse.
Neither of us moved as we contemplated one another. I thought him a handsome fellow: tidy, shiny fur and bright, black beady eyes. I rather doubt that he thought similarly complimentary thoughts about me.
This sort of you’re-not-supposed-to-be-here moment happens a lot on my farm. The little ones — piglets and lambs especially — are always getting out and ending up in unlikely locales: chicken coops, onion beds, the front stoop. Fortunately, the big ones are pretty well contained. (Although I did wake up the other morning to a small herd of cows running back and forth, bells clanging, on the dirt road in front of the house.)
This parking-lot mouse may have hitched a ride in my car without expecting to end up in the “big city.” Now, for reasons known only to him, he dropped to all fours, turned and headed due south, toward Hooksett, tail switching back and forth as he balanced on the edge of the granite curb. He then “squeaked” under the car parked two spots over. Perhaps this was his Boston transfer. Or perhaps he remembered what he needed to do while he was in town.
I went and bought paper. Then I scurried home.
I have things to do, too. Like chase lambs out of the onions.