---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Barry R Hodge 
To: Hodge [at] fas.harvard.edu
Cc: CJHodge [at] post.harvard.edu
Subject: Happenings in the smalls.


	Early yesterday morning, 3:30ish or so (or perhaps 4:30ish; a detail,
incidental only) I was in the family room, whiling away a mort of time
watching television.  Tom came in with his usual thump, and paraded in
front of me, heading towards the front hall.  I noticed a subtle
distortion of his usually noble profile, and caught up with him by the
hope chest.  He was in possession of Morris, a mouse.  I discussed the
situation with Tom, who, without argument, dropped Morris.  In sprightly
fashion Morris ran down the hall and turned left.  I followed rather
quickly, with Tom under restraint, and saw nary jot nor tittle unusual. 
I rousted out your mother, gave her custody of Tom and assigned her to
cat patrol, and looked there and here.  Morris was not to be found.

	Last night, after supper, I was heading upstairs and saw a smallish
mouse colored object streak across the front hall, from outside door
towards the love seat.  Immediately realizing that Morris had abandoned
his reclusive ways, I returned your mother to cat patrol, watched the
area while everyone assumed position, and then closely examined the area
under the radiator behind the love seat, in the certain belief that
Morris was there.  I could not find him.

	Perhaps an hour later your mother informed me that Morris had turned the
corner from the front hall, heading towards the family room, had seen
her, and had boogied back the way he had come.  She supplied me with a
flashlight, rearranged the cats, and we once more engaged in the search.

	I found Morris under the radiator against the front wall next to the
living room.  He was hiding behind the riser at the south end; was
content with his situation; did not evidence a desire to come out.  Your
mother provided a clear plastic container, for the purpose of capture a
la spider procedure, but there was something lacking.  It occurred to me
that there would be benefit to developing a mechanism to encourage more
social behavior on Morris' part, and I asked your mother for spaghetti
(uncooked).  To poke him with.  She supplied it.

	I poked Morris.  I poked him again.  I poked him a third time.  He ate
the spaghetti.

	I suspect that it started as a defensive maneuver-- nobody likes to get
poked.  Morris tolerated one or two without complaint, but then, I think,
got annoyed.  He was probably surprised by the flavor upon his first
bite; I can't imagine that his food ordinarily pokes him in the tummy at
supper time, but he adjusted immediately.  Quite quickly we adopted a
procedure.  I would poke him; he would attack the spaghetti and bite the
end; I would withdraw the spaghetti; he would follow, either volitionally
or while still attached.  It turned into a race.  Would the spaghetti
grow progressively shorter, until I could no longer reach Morris?  Or
would he, in the heat of combat and hunger, abandon his fortress and
provide room for a capture arabesque?  The encouraging factor was that
Morris is a dainty eater.  He accounted for no more than a 64th of an
inch of the spaghetti at any one bite.

	Adjustment was necessary.  Your mother provided crackers (two, of a
buttery flavor).  I ate one and crumpled the other, leaving what I
considered a tempting pile far enough from the radiator to provide scope
for the capture procedure.

	After considerable encouragement, Morris came out, grabbed a large
fragment of cracker, and scooted back before I could react.  I learned
that quickness is all.

	Another concern developed.  Morris is, in fact, quite small.  Where
would we be if he ate enough for two days and then decided to sleep it
off?  (There is, you must realize, something incongruous in the prospect
of a middle aged attorney of a certain girth, prone on the floor, hand
feeding a mouse over the course of a week or so.)

	This eventuality, however, did not occur.  Morris' appetite rose to the
occasion.  After some further encouragement, he came out far enough to
tackle the cracker fragments in bulk, and apparently lost all composure
in the face of the bounty available.  I lowered the pot, and voila.  He
was a bit distressed, at first, but within fifteen seconds he settled
down and got to work.  He was munching happily as he travelled from the
front hall through the family room to the woods behind the house.

	Jeffrey, there is a moral to this story, which I recount principally for
your benefit.  It is expressed in one word:  focus.

	Morris found himself in a situation where amazing things were happening.
 He did not blench, however.  With the exception of that single instant
when he lost sight of the advantages of reticence under the stimulus of a
pile of cracker crumbs, he conducted himself appropriately, and with
discretion.  I reserve my highest admiration for his behavior as he was
being wafted out of the house.  Even though he didn't know his ultimate
fate, and could have had no experience upon which to base a reasoned
prediction, he did the sensible thing.  He continued with his supper.

	So it is in your case, my son.  Even though you have no clue as to the
fate that awaits you, and even though you may feel like the toad beneath
the harrow, you must get on with the business at hand.  You must study
through the weekend.

	And Christina, you are in similar, though less immediately compelling,
position.  Do that which must be done.




		[ more cats ]