“Nothing is certain except death and taxes” — Benjamin Franklin, 1789. “And rodents.” —Barb, 2024.

Some of my friends write great books, have fulfilling jobs, live in lovely homes, and (I’m guessing) can discuss current affairs, literature, and the arts. They also (probably) can find ALL the pieces to their jigsaw puzzles and games, do the NYT crossword with a pen, and have already finished next year’s Christmas shopping.

Me? Not so much…

Why we can’t have nice things.

The Hub couldn’t get a ferry home, so he was stuck in Glasgow. I was about to start fixing my solo dinner—which may or may not have consisted of a bag of microwave popcorn, the end of a flattish bottle of pear cider (Kopparberg, genuine!) and the last of the Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. Don’t judge.

I got an urgent phone call from our poor tax accountants. Soon we were deep in discussions of complex concepts I don’t/they can’t/nobody could understand involving the reasons why all our money needs to go to the US government.

Tax Accountant: Do you have any guilty exposure?
Me: Well, there was that one time on the beach in France…
Tax Accountant: The IRS guidelines say —

Section 951A category income is any amount of global intangible low-taxed income (GILTI) includible in gross income under section 951A (other than passive category income). Section 951A defines GILTI. • When completing a Form 1118 for section 951A category income, enter the code “951A” on line a at the top of page 1. • Section 951A category income does not include passive category income.

Me: Um…

From the hall, I heard a noise. A lot of noises, actually. I raised my voice to cover the sound of cats pounding their little paws up and down the stairs. The dog was barking that she was going to tell Mom and they were gonna be in huge trouble unless they let her herd them.

I heard ripping noises and could only hope the cats weren’t removing the dog’s face. (None of us doubted for a second that they could.) The sound was accompanied by outraged yowls and even more barking. The accountant enquired politely if we shouldn’t continue later. Her unspoken “…because someone is clearly being murdered in the next room,” was understood.

When the ripping was accompanied by two cats howling the song of their people because they couldn’t reach their new toy, I knew it was time to act. Going into the hallway, I saw the cats had completely torn out the bottom step’s carpeting (which had been both nailed and glued into place). Peeping from under the folds was the mouse they had been trying to reach, while the dog barked at all of us.

Overcome with excitement at the prospect of something she could actually herd, the dog snatched up the mouse and raced back to my room. There she deposited the mouse between her front paws and attempted her border collie stare which had been known to force entire flocks of sheep (and the Hub) to do her bidding. The two gazed at each other before the unimpressed mouse ran under the spare bed.

Outside the door, the cats trash-talked their opinions of people who would steal their great new toy. The dog stared at the spare bed, underneath which were wall-to-wall boxes and bags and one mouse. I looked under the bed and thought about Chicago. 

⇒Time for a digression. Although it’s been half a century since I was a student on the south side of Chicago, I can still remember the effect of one mouse who passed to its eternal reward inside one of the walls of our apartment. At first it was just a general miasma that had my roommates and myself exchanging accusatory glances. Very soon, that progressed to the point where we had to move out while professionals opened the wall and retrieved what was left of the mouse.

 

I looked under the bed and thought about Chicago. Then I opened the door and told the cats to have a look for their new favorite toy. It was only minutes later when they emerged with the mouse. They evaded my grasp and raced out of the room, obviously pleased with their rodent-retrieval prowess. That turned to shock and fury when I pounced on their mouse using my rodent-removal tool, an old peanut butter bucket with a bit of cardboard for a lid. (Patent pending…)

The captured mouse was surprisingly feisty, desperately scrabbling for escape. I ran down the stairs holding the peanut butter tub, followed by both cats furiously demanding the return of their mousie, and one delighted dog who thought maybe she was herding all of us.

The mouse and I reached the safety of our trees. I released it from peanut butter tub jail, scooped up my furry little psychopaths, and headed back inside. I might have saved a life, but that still left cleaning up the mess. And the taxes.