CAT AND MOUSE

Some people retire to write the great American novel.

Some people retire to beautify their home or garden.

Some people retire and start a second career, helping the homeless in Martha’s Vineyard.

I play fetch with the cat.

I was relatively easy to train. Sort of like teaching Koko the gorilla to ask for a banana. But Koko caught on faster. Probably because she already liked bananas.

Coco, no relation to Koko but just as devious regarding takeout food, brought me the mousey, all white fluff with pink felt eyes and a distinctive death rattle. I tossed it out of the way. She brought it back again and gazed at me with the air of excitement I usually exhibit while perusing the dessert cart at a place where somebody with a fancy hat does the cooking.

I was engrossed in an intellectual pursuit on my electronic writing tablet. By writing I mean gaming. By gaming I mean trying to find the scarf in a hidden picture scene. Also, I was engaged in begging Siri to solve the day’s Wordle in less tries than my husband used.

Retirement is a very busy time for those who have multiple interests. And I’m pretty sure my husband lies about Wordle.

I tried to ignore her, with her big green eyes, quivering whiskers, and six-inch claws plunged into my leg.

I don’t like to brag, but because I was the only one not afraid to risk a broken nose by looking up to catch a fly ball, I was the star right fielder the year my church had a girl’s softball team, and therefore qualified to toss a few practice rounds of fluffy toy mousey with the cat.

I forgot two things:

1. That softball season hidden in the clouds of time took place in 1974. That's almost half a century in mousey years.

2. Cats have more persistence than a car warranty salesman.

I threw the mouse enough that I was eligible for Tommy John surgery.

Now if I could just get her to bring me a banana.