Rachel and I have a new exercise regime. It’s a type of circuit training, with bending and stretching and some sprinting.
This is how it goes: I dash in with the latest mouse (8 so far, and more to come), and she dashes after me. She’s pretty good at sprint starts. I drop it, she makes a dart for it, I pick it up and run like mad, she chases me, I drop it again, and we do this several times. Then I let her catch it. I have to keep her motivated, so I let her win. Humans are easily discouraged, and this one’s so lazy she actually prefers dead mice!
At the end of our exercise session, I rush off to the secret location where my mouse factory is based, and Rachel trudges off to a place that she thinks I don’t visit to release the mouse under the trees.
Then we do it all again, about an hour later. Burns calories very nicely.
Except when Rachel locks the cat flap, and only lets me in if I don’t have a mouse. Then she has to wait till morning when she (or Scooter) can find the dead mouse in the back yard, and put it in the bin. There are 3 in there now. The bin men come round tomorrow, so she can stop moaning about health hazards.
It’s heartbreaking, you know, sitting on top of the wheelie bin thinking about my lovely mice inside, but not being able to lift the lid to retrieve them. I should have a display cabinet for them all instead, and share their loveliness with the public. Rachel just gives me her Withering Look when I say such things.
Instead, I have to make tableaux with the fake phoney toy mice! So humiliating.
Sigh…..love those meeces to pieces, I do.