A Room With A View

I woke up to a dead mouse in my studio today. A heart stopping experience. Not like the kind when my 20 lb. tabby, J.D., pounced on the teeny tiny field mouse he found and knocked the air out of him. The poor little guy lay flatlined and I was sure he was dead. Then I saw him twitch. “Ah.” I shouted like a damsel in distress but there was no one to come to my rescue. I ran out the door wildly waving my arms in the air as I saw my neighbor pulling out of her driveway.

“Stop,” I shouted.

She slams on her brakes and looks at me wondering what dreadful thing could have happened to me so early in the morning. “What’s the matter,” she cries.

“Help, help.”

“What on earth?” She said.

“I need you."

She pulls back in her driveway and scurries over to see what is holding me breathless. “A mouse.” I said.

“Oh, for pete’s sake.” She said.

We cautiously step into the living room because we have no clue if the little guy had the courage to try to escape again or maybe we would be stepping into the crime scene. “Where is it?” she says bravely.

I’m tip-toeing behind her like Elmer Fudd and my hand is on her shoulder for moral support. “Over there.”

“Ah.” We both scream in unison when he twitches again. The other two cats are not even in the least bit interested in all the action taking place right before their beaddie eyes.

No, today was different.

“Oh no, not today,” I cried. Technology is a great thing, when it’s working. But when these little machines just quit on you for no apparent reason and they go off track like some runaway train, the anxiety can cause lasting damage to one’s heart.

I’m not like an author who sits solemnly in her little cave pounding away poetic prose, editing and reediting with a deadline down the road so I can sit in front of some publisher begging someone to please read the first five pages. No, this is live. I have an audience and we had a meeting this morning.

"Where do you keep your mice?" I ask the young man at the computer store.

One thing I learned in my previous life as a pack-mule, was that you need to be attracted to your space in order for it to entice you in so you can bask in its’ glory. Whatever your space may be. Kathy’s space is a room with a view.


The View

I knew it wouldn’t disappoint. Isn’t it glorious? On my drive to her studio, I had no idea how high up I was climbing. She merely said, “go up the hill, away from the river. Take the long drive-way down.” Good thing I didn’t see the view from the front entrance or I may have kept on going and ended up right where I came from.